


Experiments

by chasingriver



Series: ChasingRiver's Experiments Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Multi, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 73,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <img/>
  </p>
</div><br/>Sherlock conducts experiments of a sexual nature. <p>The prequel to this is <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/278101">Playtime</a>. It will make more sense if you read that first. </p><p>This is finally complete! The sequel is <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/441009">Experiments 2</a>.</p><p>Many thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava">deklava</a> for the fantastic artwork!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interlude

It took Sherlock's brain about twenty minutes to haul itself back from the ionosphere. Sherlock, surprisingly, was hoping that it would take longer. Since his first "braingasm," he had been quite content to drift hazily in the sea of neurochemicals without the ability for rational thought. He found it quite liberating.

He came up with the term "braingasm" later, or course, to describe situations where his orgasm also shut down his brain. He was the first to admit it wasn't the best word, and it sounded cheesy, but it _was_ descriptive, and there _needed_ to be a word. For experimental purposes and documentation, of course.

For those blissful, quiet, _so wonderfully quiet,_ twenty minutes, John, Lestrade, and Sherlock lay snuggled in a tangled mass on the bed. Greg had thought to grab the eiderdown after they were done. So, between their body heat, and the reflected warmth of the down feathers, they just basked in the glow of it all. Greg and John, lost in their thoughts. Sherlock, happily not thinking at all.

Mostly, those thoughts were happy, blissful ones. But if they'd been able to listen to each other's internal monologues, they would have had two disturbing thoughts in common, tugging at their brains. One: What was Sherlock going to do when he came back down? Two: Would there be any more experiments? Neither knew the answer to the first (although they both hoped it was _"not lose it"_ ) and both were praying the answer to the second question was a definite Yes.

As soon as Sherlock started babbling about showers and the ambient temperature of the room and food ( _food? Sherlock?)_ , they knew he was back. John was secretly relieved. Sherlock had never gone for that long neither thinking _nor_ talking. He was even more relieved to discover that it was Playful Sherlock who had returned, and not Moody Sherlock. Even if the mood was (currently) bliss, he knew that could go downhill fast, and he didn't want this to go there.

Greg, not knowing Sherlock's moods like John did, was just glad it wasn't Sarcastic "What the Fuck Are _You_ Doing Here, Lestrade?" Sherlock.

It was decided, unanimously, that showers were in order. Greg's shower wasn't large enough to hold three ( _a shame, that)_ , and so, in the interest of fairness, each took separate showers. Sherlock wanted to go first, apparently needing a few minutes alone with his newly restored brain.

Greg and John lounged on the bed, still loosely wrapped in one another. Greg nuzzled the back of John's neck and murmured "that went better than I'd expected." John giggled.

"Seriously though, what the fuck?"

"It was your idea to confront him." He giggled again. "You didn't realize you were going to unleash a monster, did you."

"No," Greg replied. "If I had realized that, I would have confronted him a lot sooner." They both giggled at that and indulged in a bit of languorous kissing until Sherlock finished in the shower.

Sherlock either didn't want to discuss the experiment yet, or wanted all of them to be there, because he busied himself with his cell, finding the closest places for Indian food and cross referencing them with three separate restaurant review sites.

And then, the three of them got dressed and went out for a well-deserved meal.


	2. Interlude

It was agreed that a nice sit-down meal was in order. Sherlock wanted Indian food, and John and Greg were happy to go along with that. (John was just happy he was showing interest in food of any sort. Perhaps this was an added benefit to getting him _experimenting.)_ Sherlock's phone research had turned up a good prospect within walking distance, and since it wasn't pissing down rain for a change, they decided to forgo the taxi. Greg had decided it wasn't even worth weighing in with his opinion on local restaurants. This was going to be delicate enough, and he was willing to let Sherlock have his way on this one. _(Oh, and in so many other ways if he got the chance._ )

The three of them strode along the pavement in silence in the brisk autumn air.

John could hear Sherlock's mind racing, processing the events of the previous hour. John's thoughts also raced - from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. _Good lord that was amazing. I want to do it again. Is it going to be weird living with him now? Oh god is he going to kick me out of the flat?_ He glanced over at Greg, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. Good thoughts, if the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth was any indication. Greg's thoughts were actually back at the flat, where Sherlock was having his way with _him,_ and it was all he could do not to trip over the cracks in the pavement. The Sherlock in his head was fucking him roughly over the kitchen table, making him beg for it. He felt himself getting hard and immediately had to think of Margaret Thatcher in her underwear. Now was _not_ the time.

The restaurant, Mayuri, was nothing special from the outside. Located in a row of shops, it could easily have been overlooked. Walking through the door though, they were greeted with the intoxicating spicy aroma of Really Good Indian Food.

There was brief hesitation as they were led towards a table for four. John and Greg realized Sherlock would probably be doing most of the talking, and took seats next to each other, so they could face him. The empty chair next to Sherlock was piled with coats and scarves as they made themselves comfortable for a leisurely meal. The restaurant was mostly full, offering a reasonable level of background noise to cover up anything they were discussing.

They busied themselves with the menus, and placed the order. (Chicken tikka masala, spicy. Lamb curry, also spicy, some rice, and some naan.) With that out of the way, Sherlock looked up at them both, and beamed. "Well, I thought that experiment went very well. What do you think?"

John mentally sighed with relief. This was good. _He wasn't getting kicked out of the flat_. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Um, yes, quite well, I thought." Greg just smiled and nodded, trying not to laugh. _It was like a post-match commentary._

"I see no reason not to continue the experiments," Sherlock continued, "as long as you are both still in agreement." Yes, Sherlock's brain was definitely back, and under the somewhat misguided notion that it was once again in control. John and Greg both nodded, quickly, before Sherlock had a chance to come to his senses and change his mind.

"The list I've come up with is quite extensive. If we don't approach it alphabetically, I believe we should at least categorise it into various sub-genres of experiments…" Greg, sitting directly across from Sherlock, wasn't so bold as to shut him up by kissing him in the middle of the crowded restaurant, but he slipped off his shoe and started to run his warm foot up Sherlock's leg. Sherlock's eyes widened, his voice trailed off, and he started to blush. John looked over at Greg, who was smirking slightly. John smiled, and said "Be nice." "Oh, but I am," Greg replied. "Please continue," said John.

Greg removed his foot from Sherlock's leg, and Sherlock pouted a little. "You didn't have to _stop._ It felt nice." Greg put his foot back. Who was he kidding? Sherlock _was_ in control. He would have done anything for the opportunity to be with this man again.

"So, how is this going to work?"

"Well, since my previous research in this area was _clearly_ flawed, I'll need to start from the beginning and redo it." John and Greg's brains both silently screamed with joy. "There's a lot of ground to cover, so we'll have to set up a schedule. I'll draw up the list to ensure everything is accounted for." Greg's mind went to that riding crop Sherlock owned. John's brain leapt off on a pleasant little tangent involving tying Sherlock to the bed with one of his scarves and fucking him senseless. All three of them were blushing now, and the restaurant was definitely getting warmer.

Sherlock continued. "Since some of the experiments will only involve two parties, it seems only fair that the uninvolved party should be allowed to observe and, um, collect data. If they want. Or help. As long as it doesn't interfere with the underlying experiment."

John spoke up. "We can print out the list and mark the experiments off once we've done them. Perhaps mark the really interesting ones for further experimentation, just in case we get them wrong the first time. You know, just to be sure." They all agreed this was a fabulous idea.

By this time, Greg's sock-covered foot was rubbing up against Sherlock's cock underneath the privacy of the tablecloth. Greg's hand had made its way to John's crotch, and John was gleefully returning the favour. They were all trying desperately to look like three normal blokes out for some dinner. It might have actually worked if they hadn't been blushing furiously and occasionally letting out small giggles.

Dinner arrived, and they tucked in. The food was delicious, but the three of them were more than a little distracted. After a valiant effort, they paid and got the rest of the food put in take-out boxes.

There were experiments to be done.


	3. Dessert

Sherlock would never have admitted it, but he was a little nervous about the experiments. There were so many things he wanted to try. And some of them were just so, well, embarrassing. They were clearly willing to participate, and unlikely to mock him, so that was a start. It was just… Well, how _did_ you go about asking someone to smear peanut butter on your nipples and then get them to lick it off? Or finding out how long it would take to lose consciousness if your air supply was cut off while sucking on a cock? (He wasn't sure if that would enhance sexual pleasure or not, but it seemed like interesting data to have for future reference.) Donovan was always calling him Freak. These experiments were not going to improve his credibility in that department.

"We can hear you thinking over here Sherlock." They were walking back to Greg's flat.

"Um."

"Out with it. What's wrong?"

"No one at the Yard can find out about this."

Greg nearly choked. "Did you think I was going to send out a memo?"

"Um, no, but, well…"

"This is just between the three of us." "Definitely," John agreed.

"Okay, but you both need to understand some of my experiments might seem a little…odd."

John laughed, thinking of the head in the fridge. "Sherlock, I'd be disappointed in you if they weren't. What are you worried about?"

There was a long pause, and Sherlock stopped walking. "I need to be able to propose _anything_ as an experiment. If either of you doesn't want to participate in that experiment, that's fine. But I need to be able to ask."

 _Good god,_ thought John with a start, _he's worried what we'll think._ "Sherlock, I was in the army. I can assure you I've had my fair share of unusual sexual experiences. I can also assure you that I will not be doing anything I don't want to do." Greg agreed, and John continued. "You can ask for anything. The worst that will happen is that one or both of us may say no. That information will never leave the room." He paused. He wasn't sure how this would go over, but it was worth a shot. "In the spirit of experimentation, I think it should also work the other way as well – I'd like to be able to ask for certain things that I'd like to experience."

Sherlock frowned slightly, but then relented. "I suppose that could lead to a more well-rounded set of experiments."

Greg chuckled. "I can think of a number of experiments I'd like to perform on that well-rounded arse of yours." John punched him in the arm and shot him a look that said _Don't ruin this._

Sherlock had started to laugh though, and John felt the mood lift again. They kept walking.

Sherlock checked his watch. Almost eight, and it was only Saturday. "Well then, I think we should continue the experiments tonight. I have no prior obligations. Of course I don't have the list made up yet…"

They both assured him it didn't matter, and hurried back to the flat.

"I only want to do one thing at a time until I get better at processing this. The stimulation in multiple areas makes it so hard to concentrate."

"Have you ever considered," said John, "that the stimuli overload is sort of the point?"

Sherlock hadn't. It still didn't make for good data gathering, but he decided to let that go for now. They would just have to repeat certain experiments if needed.

"So," said Greg cheerfully, after putting the leftovers in the fridge, "what would you like to do first?" John subconsciously noted that Greg's fridge contained no body parts.

"I would like to fuck John in the arse."

John went slightly weak in the knees, remembering his thought from earlier in the day. _Sherlock Holmes wanted to experiment. With him. On him. Hopefully in him._ For just the tiniest moment, John's brain exploded. And then it was back. _Oh fuck yes now please thank you very much._

"Where, and how?" _Trying desperately to sound in control._ John tried to convince himself that his breathing didn't sound ragged in the least. Not at all like he'd gone from zero to sixty like _that_ and already had a raging hard on.

"On the bed, any position you'd like. We'll need to try them all."

 _Of course we will_ , thought Greg and John, simultaneously.

Greg's brain was _trying_ to be slightly disappointed, but his cock was having none of it. _I get to watch Sherlock Holmes – Mr. Tall, Dark and Cheekbones Himself - fuck John Watson in the arse, on my bed. I might get to join in. I am the luckiest man on Earth._ He had no idea what Sherlock's recovery time was like, but he guessed it was probably quicker than his. _With any luck, maybe I'll be able to offer some comparison data later. Bent over the kitchen table._ He hurriedly cleared away some mugs and plates, just in case. John looked at him like he'd lost his mind, and hurried towards the bedroom.

John knew exactly what position he wanted to be in. He wanted (no wait, he _needed_ ) to watch Sherlock fuck him, wanted to watch the expressions on his beautiful face. _Ahem._ That was his brain. _You're supposed to be conducting experiments here, not waxing rhapsodic about his features and falling in love with him._ John decided he was officially ignoring his brain.

In the bedroom, John and Sherlock removed their clothes. Greg came in and started undressing as well. No point in being the only one dressed.

Sherlock seemed surprised when John removed his boxers. "John, how long have you been hard? You're already, um, leaking and we haven't even started yet."

John closed his eyes for a second and held his breath, then let it out. Just say it. "Since you said you wanted to fuck me."

"Really?" He sounded fascinated. "So, just the thought of intercourse was enough to produce that much of a reaction."

John was a patient man, but even he could only take so much. He realized this was the third time today he'd been hard with no relief.

"Sherlock, so help me god, if you don't hurry up and get undressed, I will bend you over this bed and _fuck you halfway into next week_."

There was a pause. Sherlock had completely stopped undressing and was just staring at him. "Really?"

John looked directly at Sherlock and nodded once, using all his willpower not to just _push_ him onto the bed.

"I think I'd like that."

"Now?"

"Yes."

John didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed Sherlock, lifted him up, and tossed him onto the bed on his back. Sherlock moaned. He had been aroused before, but when he heard the raw need in John's voice, something inside him had snapped. Now, all he wanted, the _only_ thing he could think of, was to feel John buried inside him, fucking him senseless. John pulled off Sherlock's trousers and boxers with one quick tug. He grabbed Sherlock's hands and pulled him back to his feet, and spun him around to face the bed. "Arms on the bed." His voice was already ragged. John nudged Sherlock's feet apart, spreading his legs. Sherlock's arse, his gorgeous, fuckable arse, was right there, on _display_ , for _him._ He smiled the smile of the truly blessed.

Greg, standing quietly in the corner, slowly rubbing himself, recognized it as Evil Grin Number 17. He tossed John the lube.

Sherlock felt so _exposed_ , and it thrilled him. Arms on the bed, arse in the air, his thick cock hanging heavily between his legs, he trembled in anticipation. He wanted John to see how much he wanted him, how much he needed this.

John slicked up one hand and caressed Sherlock's stunning arse. God that was a beautiful thing.

"Want…you...in...me…"

John half growled. "Soon enough." He took a slicked up finger, and without preamble, pushed it firmly inside. Sherlock made that sound again. "Nnngggghhhh."

It was quickly joined by a second, and he started scissoring them, working against the tightness. Sherlock, if his increasingly loud moaning was any indication, was enjoying himself. John pulled them back out and forced a third finger in, this time making sure to hit his prostate as well. "Now… Want. You. _Now_."

John was never one to refuse a formal invitation. He removed his fingers, and Sherlock made a desperate, pleading noise. John quickly poured extra lube on his cock, lined it up against Sherlock's hole, braced his hands on Sherlock's hips, and slowly, steadily pushed himself inside. Sherlock let out a gasp, which quickly turned into a moan of pleasure. Nestled tight up against Sherlock, John gave him a second to adjust, and slowly started pumping in and out. It didn't take long. Sherlock started making little grunts and moans of encouragement, writhing beneath him.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock could barely think, let alone answer.

"Tell me what you want."

"…"

"Do you want it like this?" John drove into him with a quick, hard thrust that took Sherlock's breath away.

"Nnnnngggghhhhhhh. Yessssss."

John took one of his hands off Sherlock's hips and pulled Sherlock's face towards him so he could see his expression while he fucked him senseless. He looked into Sherlock's heavily lidded eyes. Fuck, those eyes. "Do you want it harder, Sherlock?"

Barely making any sound, Sherlock breathed "Yes, John." Those two whispered words nearly cut John in half. _Fucking hell_. Somewhere, deep in his brain, he knew there was no going back from this. Knew he was already there. Had already been there this afternoon when he kissed him for the first time. Knew he was in love with this intense, impossible man. He knew, just as certainly, that Sherlock was not in the same place, but that was okay for now. He could wait.

John released his face and moved both hands back to Sherlock's hips, angling them slightly so he'd hit Sherlock's prostate on every pass. Sherlock wanted it harder, and John pounded into him, Sherlock's hips pushing back to meet each thrust. John reached down to stroke his cock, but Sherlock shook his head. "Almost. There. Just. My. Arse." Two more hard, deep, strokes, and Sherlock was coming all over Greg's bed. Seeing Sherlock shuddering underneath him was enough to send John over the edge, and he came, deep inside Sherlock, wrapping himself over Sherlock's back and holding on for dear life. They both collapsed on the bed and lay there, panting, John still on top of him, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat racing beneath him. After a couple minutes, they rolled off each other and onto their backs.

Greg, who had been quietly standing in the corner, watching the whole thing, left, and returned with some damp towels for clean-up. (And, truth be told, he'd very quietly wanked off to the whole thing, because damned if that wasn't about the _hottest_ thing he'd seen in his entire life.)

After a quick cleanup, the three of them lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. They were all exhausted. It had been a lot more intense than any of them had expected. Greg, half afraid Sherlock would laugh at him, suggested they stay. Neither of them really wanted to drag themselves back out into the cold night, back to their separate bedrooms. John, desperately hoping Sherlock would agree – _he wanted so very much just to stay here, near him, in this blissful state -_ said "that would be nice, thanks." Sherlock mumbled assent.

Greg found the eiderdown, and they curled up together, a sated, blissful mess of tangled limbs, and slept.


	4. Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: watersports, humiliation

Sherlock woke up first, half asleep and a little confused to find his body wrapped warmly around John's. His brain snapped to full attention when he realized there was a hand ( _not_ John's) on his arse.

"John," he whispered, "wake up."

"Mmmm?" John was still mostly asleep.

"Wake up. We're in Lestrade's bed. I don't know what to do."

"Huh?"

"Etiquette. What are we supposed to do? Should we leave before he wakes up? Make coffee? Propose?"

John groaned and buried his head in the pillow. "How the fuck should I know? Do you think I make a habit of this?"

"I thought you might have more experience this area."

"I don't."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade had woken up.

"Yes?"

"None of us know what to do. It's a new experience for all of us. Go back to sleep."

Sherlock tried, but he couldn't. He was too busy analysing the events of the previous evening.

Being penetrated by John had certainly been a successful experiment. John's sudden change of plans had added an _intensity_ to the proceedings he'd not anticipated. Perhaps it was the slightly forceful edge to John's behaviour? Certainly, John had not forced him into it, and had even asked permission, but it felt so… _raw_? Was that it? He wasn't sure. He'd _enjoyed_ giving himself over completely to whatever John wanted to do to him. Perhaps that was the thrill? _Submission_. _Hm._ It wasn't just submission in respect to being the giving or receiving participant either. It was separate from that. _Must investigate that further._ What about dominance? _Ask John_. _He seemed to know something about that._ Did everyone enjoy these aspects? _Doubtful. He would have heard about this before now if that were the case._ This was certainly an area for further study.

The smallest foundations of _kink_ began to coalesce in the shadowy corners of Sherlock's brain, and then started multiplying like bunnies.

John lay there, sleepily. He could hear Sherlock thinking, and he smiled to himself. Sherlock was still curled around him, all angles, but warm and _there._ God, he could get used to this. He didn't want to disturb him, for fear that Sherlock would realize this was somehow so… _intimate._ And so, while Sherlock analysed, John catalogued. He contentedly noted every point on his body that was touching Sherlock, and memorized it.

Greg had been instantly awake as soon as Sherlock had spoken. His hand was on Sherlock's bare arse. He'd pretended there was nothing unusual about this, although his brain had screamed at him - _your hand, Sherlock's arse, holy fucking hell!_ He just wanted to clench his fingers and _grab_ it. But he'd pretended he was still sleepy, and kept his breathing slow. Sherlock was between him and John, wrapped around John. _Lucky bastard._ Wait, who was he kidding? He was in bed, naked, with both of them. They were all lucky bastards. How could this possibly be happening? He'd thought Christmas had come early when John had shown up yesterday. _Hands behind his back, shoulders aching. Yeah._ And then Sherlock had appeared, and he'd thought all hell was going to break loose. But it didn't. And now this. The three of them, still in bed ( _naked_ , his brain noted again), and no one had left the room screaming. Was it _actually_ possible for this to work? He really, really hoped so. It wasn't just the sex, either. Hanging out with them was nice (although he suspected Sherlock didn't _hang out_ much, in general practice.) They all needed to get out more. _Naked, naked, naked._ (Greg's brain threw that in for good measure, because it really didn't think Greg was paying enough attention.) God, but he needed to piss. He got up and padded towards the loo.

He completely failed to hear Sherlock slide out of bed and follow him. Greg stood at the toilet, pissing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Sherlock was standing at the door, _watching_ him. He flinched, mid-stream, and nearly missed the toilet bowl.

"Lestrade."

"You _can_ call me Greg, you know." He tried to sound casual. Why was Sherlock watching him piss? _Christ, Sherlock had been the one just going on about etiquette; surely this was an obvious violation of even the most basic rules._ Sherlock intimidated him under the best of circumstances, but this was downright unnerving.

"Detective Inspector." Sherlock drew the words out slowly.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Greg started to realize what this might be about. Bloody hell. He couldn't meet Sherlock's intense stare, which left him looking down, at Sherlock's half-hard cock. Oh _god._ He shifted his gaze to stare at the floor, starting to panic a bit.

"It occurs to me that if we're going to conduct these _experiments_ on equal footing, you owe me an apology. For the drugs bust."

 _Bloody fucking hell._ He'd known Sherlock was going to retaliate for that, but he'd had no inkling it would be like _this_.

"Sherlock…"

"I believe, while making an apology, you should refer to me as 'Sir.'"

"Yes… sir." His cock twitched. Damn. Now was not the time to start getting aroused. He'd been having submissive fantasies involving Sherlock for a while now, but he had barely admitted that to himself, let alone anyone else. How did Sherlock _know?_

"I'm sorry for initiating the false drugs bust, sir."

Sherlock laughed. "You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?"

 _Uh oh._ He'd certainly hoped it would be.

"No, Detective Inspector. You humiliated _me_ in front of John and your coworkers. I think a little humiliation is in order here. John, are you awake? The Detective Inspector would like to make his apology for the drugs bust."

There were shuffling noises from the bedroom. John walked in, brow furrowed and looking slightly confused.

"I was just explaining to him that in order for these experiments to continue, I would need a genuine apology – one that deals him an equal amount of humiliation."

John wasn't at all sure about this. He glanced at Sherlock, who was wearing a half smirk and definitely starting to get erect. Greg looked appropriately contrite, but was more than a little hard. Alright, maybe this was okay. Greg had certainly shown submissive tendencies yesterday.

"Shower. On your knees. Now."

Greg walked into the shower stall and knelt on the floor, looking at the ground. _Why was this so hot?_ He silently prayed he was going to be allowed to suck Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock followed him into the shower stall, and tried to think unappealing thoughts to minimize his erection. This wasn't going to work if he was hard.

"Detective Inspector. I am going to piss on you, while you apologize to me. You will maintain eye contact with me at all times. Doctor Watson will bear witness. Do you understand and accept this?"

 _Oh god. Really? Sherlock was right, this was definitely humiliating._ His cheeks reddened. _It would be worth it if this makes us even._ "Yes, sir." He looked up to face Sherlock, who stared intently back at him.

John stood by the door, and tried not to gape. This was new to him, certainly.

Sherlock had managed to quell his erection enough so that it was actually possible to urinate. _This was certainly an experiment. The dominance aspect of this really turned him on. He wasn't sure about the whole watersports thing, but given Greg's blush response, this was definitely sufficiently humiliating to even their score._ He started to piss on Greg's chest, the faintly yellow stream hitting Greg about nipple height and trickling down towards his groin.

"I would like to apologize for the fake drugs bust, and any humiliation it caused you. It was inappropriate and will not happen again. Sir."

"Apology accepted, Greg. Thank you. You can stand back up now, if you want. And you can call me Sherlock again… that is, unless you'd prefer to stick with 'Sir…'" Sherlock smiled broadly at Greg.

Greg positively beamed. In all the years he'd known him, it was the first time Sherlock had _ever_ used his first name. _That was worth it._ "If it's all the same to you, _Sir,_ I'd really rather stay here and service that gorgeous cock of yours for a bit. It's the least I can do."

Sherlock was more than willing to let this play out a little longer. He happily gave himself over to an extremely enthusiastic and grateful Greg.

John propped himself up against the wall, discovering a new kink of his own. It seemed he quite liked to _watch._


	5. Still No Breakfast

Sherlock decided Greg had sufficiently apologized, and instead of immediately taking him up on his offer to service him, turned on the shower. Greg looked surprised and a little disappointed. "You misunderstand. I still want you on your knees in front of me; I'd just like to do it while we're clean and dry."

Now it was John's turn to be slightly disappointed. It appeared this was just going to be a shower. Getting all three of them into the shower was a logistical impossibility (at least if they were going to be able to do anything _interesting_ once they were there.) Then he had an idea. He wasn't sure how it would go over with either of them, but it was worth a try. "Um, Sherlock, Greg, I'd like to try something. Since I'm out here, and you two are in there, perhaps I could, um… direct."

Pause. He could hear Sherlock thinking. "Interesting. Alright. Greg?"

"Sure."

 _Bugger. He should have thought this through a little more before he'd suggested it. He had no idea what to do._ "Greg, take the soap and lather up Sherlock's neck and chest." Greg reached for a flannel. "No, with your hands." Greg smiled, starting to get the idea, and slowly and sensuously lathered the soap onto Sherlock, massaging his tense muscles as he did so. Sherlock looked on, seeming slightly amused. "Sherlock, kiss Greg." Sherlock's head whipped around to look at John. If Greg hadn't been completely absorbed by the sight of Sherlock's neck, he would have recognized Evil Grin Number 23. "You said I could direct. That means both of you." Sherlock thought about it for a second, then shrugged, and pulled Greg in for a kiss, water cascading over both of them, and washing off all the soap. Greg didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock's hands were in Greg's hair and around his waist, pulling him closer. Greg decided that was all the invitation he needed, and his hand immediately found Sherlock's perfect arse and kneaded it. Greg let out a small groan. John watched with satisfaction as the two kissed passionately. "Greg, you seem to be doing a lovely job of rubbing Sherlock's arse there. Why don't you lather that up a bit?" If anyone had been paying attention (John was, actually), they would have seen Greg blush, just a little. Greg turned Sherlock around and dropped to his knees, lathered up his hands, and then started rubbing them firmly all over the glorious expanse of arse inches from his face. Sherlock's palms hit the shower enclosure as he braced himself against it.

John could see Sherlock was getting aroused. Greg was getting there too, by the looks of it. John had no intention of letting either man do anything about it. Not until he was involved. He smiled to himself. "Greg, rinse him off. I think you should be doing a more thorough job of cleaning him." Greg looked at him, confused. "Use your tongue." The _"idiot"_ was implied. Greg had the decency to look sheepish, and got to work. His tongue worked its way down the crack of Sherlock's arse, lingering for some time over his entrance, just teasing. He continued down to his perineum and his balls. Sherlock let out a groan as Greg sucked on one of them. Greg's hand reached for Sherlock's cock. "No. Just your mouth. That's for later." Sherlock let out a small whimpering noise. He hadn't intended to, but he couldn't help himself. It didn't look like John had any intention of letting them come. Not yet, at least.

Greg's mouth was back on Sherlock's arse. A practical man, Greg figured if he wasn't going to be allowed Sherlock's cock, he might as well do as much damage as he could with his mouth and tongue. He spread Sherlock's arse cheeks with his hands, and eagerly started rimming him. Something hit the glass of the shower. Ah, that was one of Sherlock's hands. _Good, then. He liked that._ He darted his tongue in and out in a few teasing strokes, faintly tasting the soap he'd used earlier. Sherlock squirmed in delight, and Greg drove his tongue in deeper.

"Alright. I think everyone is clean enough." They both looked around, horrified. "Oh, don't worry, we're not done yet. First we need to get you dried off."

He grabbed a couple towels, and headed over to the shower. Greg deferred to Sherlock, who stepped out first. Sherlock reached for the towel. "No. Stand there. I'm going to dry you." Greg looked at John, slightly confused, as he tossed him the other towel so he could dry himself off. (John realized this wasn't exactly fair, but he figured Greg would understand. Greg did.)

Sherlock had never had anyone dry him with a towel, at least not since he'd been a child. He'd never imagined it could be a sensuous act. As John painstakingly dried each limb, each expanse of skin, Sherlock focused on the terrycloth lightly brushing against his warm body. It was almost hypnotic.

John's brain congratulated itself on having such a brilliant idea. Drying Sherlock? That had been sheer genius. _Good one, brain_. Trying not to be too obvious about it, he turned it into an act of adoration. He started by gently drying his dark curls, then his ears, then focusing on his long, slender neck. Moving slowly down his back and arms, he marvelled that he was being allowed this privilege – the chance to observe this amazing, stunning creature. He marvelled at that arse. That _perfect_ arse. Then his legs, lean but strong. John's brain screamed as it suddenly realized the fatal flaw in the plan. _Oh god, now you have to face him._ He had to dry Sherlock's front side, _with Sherlock looking at him._ John turned him around, terrified of what he would see. Would Sherlock think this was pathetic? Weird? _Boring_? He relaxed as he saw a faint, distant smile on Sherlock's face. He softly pressed the towel to Sherlock's face to dry the tiny water droplets clinging to his lashes. He continued lower, gently working down his chest. _Do not, under any circumstances, play with his nipples. Now is not the time._ John reluctantly listened to his brain, and headed lower. He dried Sherlock's hands, giving attention to each one of those long, slender fingers. Sherlock watched him, fascinated. (Greg watched both of them, making a mental note to learn as much as possible from John about being such a sensuous bastard.)

 _Oh dear, we're getting to his cock._ Alarm bells went off in John's brain. _We're English; we don't handle nudity well when we're trying to avoid sex. We make inappropriate jokes, or flinch. Don't flinch. That would be bad._ John got a grip (as it were), and managed to dry Sherlock's semi-hard cock and balls without any additional, um, stimulation. Although, if anyone had been paying attention (both Greg and Sherlock were, actually), John got quite a bit firmer. He finished drying Sherlock's legs, and feet, and in between his toes, then stood up and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the lips, and a smile. Sherlock beamed at him, and pulled him in for a real kiss.

Greg had long since dried himself off, and now he got out of the shower. "Okay, you two. We're going to have to actually eat food at some point. Or else our blood sugar will get so low that we'll pass out and the good doctor here will have to _resuscitate_ us." No one actually thought that sounded like a bad thing, but they agreed (well, at least John and Greg agreed) that perhaps there should be some food involved. Greg found the dressing gowns and handed them to John and Sherlock, and found a pair of boxers and a t-shirt for himself.

They headed off to the kitchen.


	6. Actual Breakfast

Greg, unlike Sherlock, actually had some competence (and food) in the kitchen. He set about making a pot of tea, some cheese omelettes, and toast. Nothing caught fire or burned - something which seemed to vaguely disappoint Sherlock. ( _If you had to eat, it should at least be exciting.)_

It was after they'd finished that John started toying with the jam. Well, to be more accurate, toying with Greg and Sherlock, using the jam. He dipped in his knife, and slowly licked off the smear of jam on the end of it. He dipped it back in the jam. Sherlock huffed. "That's not very hygienic." John smeared the jam on Sherlock's lips and licked it off them. "Neither is that, but I don't hear you complaining." Sherlock's eyebrows conceded the point as he leaned in for a strawberry jam flavoured kiss. Greg's brain suddenly realized the untapped erotic possibilities of Tesco's, and filed the information away for future reference. Greg dipped his fingers in the jam, and rubbed it up the long expanse of Sherlock's neck suddenly available to him. He started licking and sucking it off, nipping at Sherlock's neck. Sherlock, still kissing John, let out a small moan.

Simultaneously, for great minds often think alike in erotically charged situations, the three of them abandoned their chairs and moved to the wooden floor of the kitchen. John grabbed the jam and Greg made a quick detour for honey and peanut butter. Dressing gowns were shucked and used as impromptu rugs. Greg, not wanting to be overdressed for the occasion, lost the clothes. The three of them ended up in an impromptu picnic on the floor, smearing all kinds of things in all kinds of places. The menu was decidedly more interesting than breakfast had been. Sherlock was especially gratified to be able to conduct his peanut butter on nipples experiment without even having to mention it. _Results were definitely positive, and should be repeated for further analysis. Next time the experiment should include more biting._

Sherlock had never previously considered the erotic possibilities of biting. He'd always regarded it as something done by small children on playgrounds, not grown men devouring their lovers. He sensed that both John and Greg were somewhat submissive around him, but Greg was definitely leaning further towards that end of the spectrum. He leaned over and drizzled honey over Greg's neck and shoulder, and proceeded to lick it off. At first, he interspersed a few gentle nips, but as Greg started moaning, Sherlock started gnawing on the area where his shoulder met his neck. Greg started to lose himself in the sensation, and was completely caught off guard when Sherlock purred in his ear, "So, Inspector, what sort of fantasies have you been having about me, exactly?"

Greg panicked, just a little. "Um…"

Sherlock continued, his voice like velvet. "All those times I saw you mentally cataloguing where I brushed by you at crime scenes. You honestly never thought of where else you wanted my hands, my lips, my body?"

This new side of Sherlock, seductive and dangerous, was a little terrifying. All Greg wanted to do was submit to this man, in any way Sherlock would let him, and yet, he wasn't sure if he could bring himself to say that - wasn't sure if he was ready to give up what little control he had left. _Are you insane?_ His brain, (or maybe his cock, he wasn't sure), screamed at him. _When are you going to get the chance to do this again? Just tell him, for fuck's sake._

"I'd like to suck that gorgeous cock of yours, um, Sir."

Sherlock smiled, and gently disentangled himself from John, who was doing an experiment with strawberry jam along the arch of Sherlock's foot. _Surprisingly sensitive and pleasantly erotic. Unexpected._

Sherlock stood, and braced himself against the table. "I think that could be arranged. On your knees." _Well, that was rather obvious, but he liked the sound of it. And Greg certainly seemed to react well to the phrase._

John repositioned himself on the dressing gown, making himself comfortable to enjoy the show. _For someone new to submission, Greg seemed to be a quick study, or at least extremely enthusiastic._

Greg shuffled over to Sherlock on his knees, his mouth at just the right height. Sherlock _presented_ his cock to him, half hard, holding it there for him. Greg greedily took him in his mouth and started sucking. He groaned a little as it got larger and harder in his mouth, filling it up and stretching his jaw. His mouth had started watering as soon as Sherlock had agreed to let him. He teased the tip with his tongue, and licked long strokes down the underside of his cock to his balls, nuzzling and licking them for good measure. Then he took Sherlock's entire length, now fully hard, into his mouth. He wanted to hear Sherlock moan, wanted to hear him lose control, wanted him to thrust into his mouth because he needed it. Greg looked up at him. He had that haughty half-smirk on his face. Definitely not the look of outright lust he'd been hoping for. He clearly needed to work harder.

He impaled himself on Sherlock's cock, taking him in as deeply as he possibly could, the head of it hitting the back of his throat. It almost triggered his gag reflex, but he managed to hold it off. Then he slowly backed off, sliding the wet length of him out of his mouth and lightly scraping his teeth along the underside. And then he did it again, and this time, he cupped Sherlock's balls with one of his hands, and rubbed them. Short, wet, quick strokes now, getting into a good rhythm. Another look at Sherlock's face – the smirk was gone, and his mouth was open, his lips wet and pink, his breathing shallow. Greg returned to his ministrations, lost in the overwhelming satisfaction of having his mouth filled by, and with, Sherlock. _Holy fucking hell._

Sherlock glanced at John, who was watching the proceedings with interest from the floor, stroking himself lazily. When Sherlock made eye contact, he immediately focused, and saw Sherlock mouth the word "lube." Clearly, Sherlock didn't want Greg to know what he was in for. Not yet, at least. John grinned, and quietly padded off towards the bedroom. Greg was entirely too preoccupied servicing Sherlock to notice.

John returned to find Sherlock in a slightly different stance. No longer braced against the table, he was now braced against Greg. His hands were on either side of Greg's head, leaning in towards him, fucking his mouth with abandon. John didn't know how much practice Greg had at this sort of thing, but it certainly looked like he was doing a remarkably good job of keeping up. Sherlock looked like he could keep going all day. Then, without warning, Sherlock pulled out of Greg's mouth and pulled Greg up so he was standing. Greg moaned at the sudden loss, but was soon silenced as Sherlock kissed him, passionately.

"I want to fuck you, bent over the kitchen table." Sherlock's voice was low and rough. "Will you let me?"

Greg's mind lost its grip on reality. Sherlock was _asking_ if he could fuck him over his own table. "Fuck… Yes… _Please…"_ The last word was almost a plea.

John handed Sherlock the lube, and settled back down in anticipation. Sherlock practically shoved Greg in the direction of the kitchen table, and bent him over it. Greg rested his head on his folded arms, and wiggled his arse a bit – partly to get in a better position, and partly, well, because he could. Teasing Sherlock Holmes with his arse had never actually been on his list of life goals ( _why on earth not?)_ , but it had suddenly and firmly found its way to the top of the list, and damned if he wasn't going to make good on it.

Sherlock rewarded him with a cheeky slap on the bum. _Ooh, that made him jump._

Greg, to his dismay and embarrassment, groaned in pleasure. _Bloody hell. He wasn't into this. Was he? Fuck. His cock certainly was._ He held his breath, silently praying Sherlock would do it again. He did. Greg was learning all sorts of new and interesting things about his psyche. _One of them being that you're a kinkier bastard than you've given yourself credit for._

Sherlock was pleased by Greg's reaction to the slap. He had intended it as punishment for the teasing arse wiggle, and had not expected the groan of pleasure. _That was interesting._ He tried it again, on the other arse cheek. _Ohh, another groan._ He suddenly wished he had his riding crop with him, and his own cock jumped at that thought. _Really? Ohhhh. Oh dear._ Sherlock's brain immediately reached the same conclusion Greg's had just reached. All sorts of interesting possibilities appeared unbidden in his mind and filed themselves away for later use. Sherlock examined the pink marks on Greg's bum, and rubbed his hand slowly over them, feeling the warmth there. Greg let out another moan. Sherlock suddenly remembered why he had Greg's lovely body bent over the kitchen table, and decided that the pain and sensory experiments could wait. He spread Greg's arse cheeks, bending down to lick his entrance. Greg's hands left his head, and grabbed onto the sides of the table for dear life.

Sherlock explored Greg's arse with his tongue. _Lots of nerve endings. Sensitive. Musky. Good._

Greg tried not to squirm off the table in pleasure. His brain was in no state to analyse anything. _Holy fucking hell._

Sherlock's cock wrested control of his brain back long enough to remind him ( _again)_ why he had Greg in this position. There was a brief internal argument over the relative merits of rimming versus arse fucking, but Sherlock decided he could always do more experiments later. Greg whined slightly at the loss of contact. "Oh, don't worry," Sherlock grinned. He grabbed the lube from the table and smeared some on his fingers. He teased Greg's entrance a little, and then plunged in his middle finger. "Ohhhh. Yessss…" Greg seemed to be pretty relaxed already, and Sherlock quickly added another finger, burying them up to his knuckles. "Nngggghhhhh." _That was a new sound._ He scissored his fingers, slowly stretching him. His fingers curled slightly, searching for Greg's prostate. Greg jolted like someone had just plugged him into the wall. _Found it._ Sherlock smiled, and added a third finger, watching in fascination as his fingers disappeared easily into Greg's arse.

Greg's mind was a haze of dopamine, unable to focus on anything but the glorious feeling of Sherlock's fingers in his arse. But he wanted Sherlock's cock – wanted to get fucked, proper. His brain managed to get out a single word. "Please…"

Sherlock, fingers still inside him, leaned over Greg and whispered in his ear. "Please what, Greg? Tell me what you want. Tell me what you _need."_

Greg's brain struggled to access its language centres. "Need… you… inside me."

With that, Sherlock stood back up, removed his fingers, and lubed up his straining cock. ( _Oh, thank god. Finally, he's listening.)_ He lined up against Greg, and slowly entered him in one, long push. He held still for a couple seconds, giving Greg a chance to adjust, and then started pulling all the way back out, just as slowly. As it turns out, Sherlock Holmes could be a bit of a sadistic tease when he wanted to be. The head of his cock popped out of Greg's arse, and Greg wailed. Then he was back there, again, deep inside him, faster and harder this time. Greg grunted in approval and relief. This time, Sherlock kept up a blistering pace, the slap of his skin against Greg's arse sounding wonderfully obscene. Sherlock braced himself against Greg with one hand, using his other to grab Greg's cock and stroke him in long, hard pulls. Sherlock could feel his release building inside him. He could feel Greg getting larger, closer to his own release. He concentrated on that. He wanted Greg to come first – wanted to fuck him with abandon after he was already spent (not that he was going to last long, at this rate.) He changed his angle slightly, realizing he'd probably not been hitting Greg's prostate. Greg shuddered. _Ah, yes. That was it._ Sherlock's hand was covered as Greg came violently, splattering his release onto the kitchen floor. Sherlock braced both hands back on Greg's hips, and fucked him as hard and as deep as he could. It didn't take long before the orgasm crashed over him, making his knees weak as he came deep inside Greg. They both lay slumped over the kitchen table; Sherlock resting on Greg's back, panting.

After a while, the three of them found themselves on the floor, curled around each other in a comfortable silence. Sherlock, predictably, was the one to kill the mood. "Well, it's Sunday. I could use a change of clothes. I didn't know I was going to be staying over." John tried, without any luck, to point out that you didn't need clothes if you were going to be naked all day. Sherlock was unconvinced and undeterred. Greg, trying not to sound too desperate, lobbied for a change of venue to 221B Baker Street. John thought that sounded like a good idea too. Even Sherlock had to agree he really couldn't see anything wrong with that. _Plus, his riding crop was there._


	7. Floor Show

They stood outside Lestrade's flat and hailed a taxi. They climbed in, Sherlock sitting next to John, Greg sitting behind the driver. Sherlock, still facing forward, tilted his head towards John. His voice low, he said, "Don't think I forgot about what I said last night." As if John could forget. " _I would like to fuck John in the arse."_ The phrase " _With me, on me, hopefully in me"_ flitted through his mind. Sherlock just gave that enigmatic smile of his. _Oh god, yes, that is what he means._ His breathing hitched.

"You alright, John?"

Greg was looking at him. John just nodded.

"I was just reminding John of some unfinished business from last night." His voice was so smooth and so confident. So completely the opposite of what his would be if he opened his mouth at the moment. Sherlock placed his gloved hand on John's thigh. _Oh dear god. That isn't helping._ Sherlock just gave him that _smirk_.

Greg choked down a chuckle and ended up having a coughing fit.

John was having a little bit of a nervous breakdown. A bit not good. _Why can't I just take this for what it is? Experiments. Ridiculously hot sex. With my roommate. Oh god. Fuck, bugger, damn. Why do I have to feel like this about him? This can only end in a bloody awful mess._ Sherlock's hand on his thigh made his whole body ache with need. _His goddamn hand on my thigh. I'm not a teenager here. Bloody fucking hell. Pull it together, man._ He started to suspect he was in a little over his head, emotionally speaking. _Sherlock doesn't know. It'll be fine._ A second ticked by. _Are you fucking kidding yourself? Of course he knows. He doesn't feel the same way, but do you honestly think he hasn't noticed your reactions? Noticed your little acts of worship over the past twelve hours? We're talking about Sherlock Fucking Holmes, here._ He sighed, heavily, despite himself.

Sherlock's smirk vanished and he looked at John with concern. "John, are you okay?"

John frowned and shook it off. "It's nothing, sorry."

Sherlock's gloved hand left John's thigh and found the back of his neck, pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Greg suddenly found somewhere else to look. It felt like too intimate a moment to share ( _which was more than a little ironic, considering the events of the last day)._ Sherlock eventually pulled away from the kiss, and their eyes met. "Are you worried about the impact this may have on our living arrangements?" _Ha. Yes, that was one way of putting it. Worried about falling in desperately in love with my emotionally unavailable roommate? That was another way of putting it._ "Yes." "I can assure you, I will not let it interfere with our relationship, and you are in no way obligated to continue if you don't wish to." _That was the point. He_ wanted _it to interfere with their relationship. He wanted it to_ be _a relationship._ "No," John stammered slightly. "That's not it. I… I just like the way things are. I don't want to have to leave." Sherlock smiled. "I wouldn't hear of it."

 _Drop it,_ thought John. _Enjoy what you have. Accept it for what it is._ John smiled. "Good."

They arrived at 221B Baker Street. Greg paused as they entered, the significance of his new status not lost on him. Normally when he came here, he was Scotland Yard. Now he was, what, _lover? Fellow participant in sexual experiments?_ It was all a little surreal.

Mrs. Hudson heard them at the door of course, and _happened_ to be the hallway when they came in. "Ooo, 'ello Sherlock, John. Didn't hear you come back last night…? Detective Inspector, what are you doing out here on a Sunday?"

Greg looked nervous. "Um, a case…"

"Ah, a case. Well, of course. You boys let me know if you need anything." She smiled at them, a little too widely.

Greg was starting to wonder if _Sherlock_ had sent out a memo.

Once inside the flat, John started giggling. Mrs. Hudson had always assumed that he and Sherlock were sleeping together, and now she was actually right. He went into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. No harm in applying some more tea to the situation.

Sherlock bounded into the kitchen, grabbed John from behind, and rubbed himself lasciviously against his body. "Tea? Surely you can think of more compelling things to do than make tea…?"

"You are fairly compelling…"

"Greg, get over here. John can't find anything more interesting to do than make tea. That seems like a crime. You handle crimes, don't you?" The words tumbled out of his mouth with manic enthusiasm.

Greg was at the window, feeling a little out of his depth now that he wasn't in his own flat. Greg tried to shake off the feeling of, what? Nervousness? It seemed silly, after what they'd all done. But this wasn't his territory, and he felt a bit intimidated. He walked over the kitchen, where Sherlock now had John backed up against the counter and was grinding himself into John's crotch with a gleeful expression on his face. "Now, Greg. Keep John _entertained_. I need to change." He gave John a playful nip on his neck, and hurried off to his bedroom.

John and Greg exchanged a look of "what the hell?" and shrugged. Clearly Sherlock had a plan of some sort. Neither of them had the faintest idea what it was. _In retrospect, John realized this was probably for the best. He wasn't sure he could have handled knowing beforehand. Ignorance is bliss, and all that._

Greg gave John a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, and dropped to his knees. It was his new favorite position. And he'd been tasked with entertaining John, after all.

John felt a sudden thrill go through him. In all his years, he'd never had anyone _service_ him. There had always been give and take. And he liked that. But this? Greg, on his knees, in front of him, just offering pleasure and wanting nothing in return? That was unexpectedly hot. His mind flashed on Greg with his hands caught behind his back the previous evening. As Greg undid his trousers, John stripped off his belt, and held it up to Greg, a silent question. Greg put his hands behind his back, and John smiled. He fastened the belt tightly around his wrists. Greg moaned, just a bit. John walked back around to face him, noticing Greg's eyes, already dark with lust.

"Tell me what you want, Greg."

"I want you to use my mouth for your pleasure. Sir."

John smiled at his use of the word "sir." _Sherlock wasn't the only quick study around here._ He removed his boxers and let them fall in a heap with his trousers. He was already hard. _Dear god, Greg was on his knees in front of him. Of course he was hard._

He held his cock, and stepped forward towards Greg. His other hand went to the back of Greg's neck, and pulled him in closer. Greg opened his mouth eagerly, and licked his lips to make sure they were as slick as possible. He had a feeling this might be his last chance to do that for a while. Greg's erection strained in his trousers. This submission stuff went straight to his cock, and made him weak in the knees. A random thought flitted through his mind. _I wonder if that's why submissives are on their knees so often?_ John slowly but firmly forced his cock into Greg's mouth. Greg, struggling to keep up, flashed on the time John had forced the dildo in his mouth before he'd fucked him. _Nnngggghhhhh._ Greg tried to open his mouth wider to get more of John inside him.

"Yeah. You like that, don't you." It wasn't a question. John's voice was low. Obscene.

Greg could hear the smile in it, without looking at his face. He flushed. He did like this. He couldn't reply – mainly because it was an anatomical impossibility, but also because he'd been brought up not to speak with his mouth full. He let out a soft groan, instead. Greg concentrated on breathing through his nose, trying not to trigger his gag reflex. By the time John was completely in his mouth ( _how in hell had he managed to get the whole damned thing in there?)_ , he couldn't even breathe through his nose. John was completely cutting off his airway. John held him there firmly for a few seconds, then backed off to let him breathe. Greg inhaled hard through his nose, and started to concentrate on sucking him and pleasuring him with his tongue.

John was impressed at the sheer force of will Greg was applying to this. He hadn't expected to get himself all the way in his mouth on the first go. He backed off a bit so Greg could breathe, and was rewarded with delicious movements from Greg's tongue, an eager sucking, and another low moan. _Yes, he certainly did seem to like that._ He built up a regular rhythm, and Greg matched his pace. _Greg's face was elongated with his jaw stretched open like that, his eyes closed, intent on his task_. His mind was wandering - time to put a stop to that. He grasped Greg's head with both hands. Greg opened his eyes and glanced up at him. John gave him one of his trademarked Evil Grins (Number 3).

John had been on his knees with his hands tied behind his back before. _(The less said about_ that _relationship, the better)_. One thing he knew, and could empathize with, was the workout Greg's abdominals were about to get. With no way to steady yourself, you pivot at your knees or your waist, and your body is at the mercy of the person holding onto your head. Your core muscles try to compensate for this, whether you like it or not. This knowledge didn't stop John. He started fucking Greg's face with abandon.

Greg had never been _used_ as a sex object before. He loved it. All he could feel, all he could concentrate on, was John's cock assaulting his mouth. It was glorious. It was obscene and raw and glorious. He was more than a little surprised to feel himself getting close to orgasm. He was still fully dressed. His cock was straining against his trousers, but John hadn't laid a hand on it. _No way. No fucking way he was coming in his trousers without so much as a touch. Oh god, that was humiliating._ And at that thought, with John still fucking his face, Greg came, hard.

John felt Greg shuddering beneath him. _Wow. He really_ did _like that._ The realization that Greg had just come from worshiping his cock, _and that alone_ , sent John over the edge, and he held Greg tightly as he gushed into his mouth. He gently pulled himself out as Greg swallowed, and knelt down to kiss him. He could taste himself in Greg's mouth. "Thank you. That was amazing." Greg beamed. "It was my pleasure. Um. Literally." He'd gone about three shades of red.

"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of." John stood and removed the belt restraining Greg's hands. Greg flexed his arms and shoulders, and smiled.

They both wondered what was taking Sherlock so long.

Sherlock had known exactly what he was doing, of course, and had found what he needed almost immediately. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not one to miss the opportunity of a Grand Entrance. Or, for that matter, an enticing Floor Show. He stood just out of visual range, watching John and Greg with a smile. When he saw that Greg had come as well, he smiled even wider. _Good. He didn't want this to be over too quickly._

* * *

 _ **More A/N:** Yes, I know it didn't have the riding crop in it. The next chapter will, and I'm writing it Right Now. _ greedy!fangirls _leaving comments on this chapter will make the riding crop appear that much sooner. :) (Feeling a bit toppish today, myself.)_


	8. Grand Entrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: d/s, pain, riding crops, angst

Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to do next. And, although it was still _way_ up there on his list (right there at second, actually), it wasn't "fuck John in the arse." That was why he'd mentioned it in the taxi. He really _didn't_ want John to think he'd forgotten about that. He just had to do this first. Because, well, because he had a feeling _this_ could be a pretty big part of who he was, even though he hadn't realized it before. He'd already seen what submission did to him when John had bent him over that bed. He'd gotten a taste of dominance when he bent Greg over that table. But the realization that he wanted to use his riding crop on someone? That had gone straight from his brain to his cock and stayed there. It was _all_ he could think about.

And so, he'd left John and Greg in the kitchen, and gone up to his bedroom to change. He dug around in the wardrobe until he found them – a pair of black leather bondage trousers he'd splurged on for a costume party Mycroft had held one year. He'd worn them fairly frequently since. Not out of the house, mind you. He liked to wear them with all the zippers closed. They were so tight like that. They felt… somehow comforting, on those days when his brain wouldn't shut up, before John had moved in. _Fascinating. I haven't worn them since he moved in. Haven't felt the need to._

Comfort and security were _not_ why he was looking for them now. He was wearing them because he knew they made him look ridiculously hot. And he was fine with that.

He slipped out of his clothes, and put on the bondage pants. No boxers. _Careful with that zip._ The zip was a challenge, actually. He was more than a little hard.

He picked up his riding crop from its spot next to his headboard. He ran it through his hands, lovingly, and brought it to his face to inhale the scent of the leather. His eyes closed. It went straight to his cock. The smell of leather always had. It was part of the reason he'd taken up riding when Mummy wanted him to have a hobby - all that lovely leather. He'd not kept with it, of course, but the riding crop from those days was one of his treasured possessions. It had even come in handy on a case or two. But _this. This was new. And definitely Not Boring._

He looked at his reflection appraisingly in the window. The black leather went well with his dark hair. His chest and his feet were bare. He had some lovely boots, of course, but he wanted them to see his feet. It all seemed more _indecent_ with a flash of ankle.

He stood there for a while. He had to plan out what he was going to do. He couldn't just run in there with a hard-on and a riding crop and expect to _improvise_. Well, perhaps a little bit of improvisation would be fine, but he had to have the general idea planned out. He wanted to crop _(was that a verb?)_ Greg. Partly because he could tell there was _something_ going on with John that he didn't really understand, but mostly because Greg practically seemed to be begging for it. _Hm. I wonder if I_ can _make him beg for it?_ He'd also seen John's dominant tendencies, and he wasn't sure if John would actually _let_ him. It wouldn't be good, striding into the middle of the room in leather pants and having someone say, "Thanks, but no." He really didn't think Greg would say no. It was too bad really; he'd love to dominate John. Perhaps one day…

He'd never used a riding crop on a live person before. Corpses? Yes – great for working out frustration. He suspected if he tried that on Greg though, they'd end up at the hospital. He tried a few swats on his arm to get a feel for it. It really stung if the folded leather flap at the end was allowed to wrap around the body. Good to know.

He silently crept back down the stairs. He positioned himself just out of direct view, but made sure he could watch. Greg was on his knees in the kitchen. _Oh, this is going even better than I'd hoped._ It was impressive, too. _Not something you saw every day._ Well, barring the last twenty-four hours, at least.

He was surprised to see Greg's orgasm. He hadn't been expecting that - not without some sort of _intervention_. He saw John removing the belt from Greg's wrists, and Greg stretching out. They started to wonder where he was. _Now_ it was time for that Grand Entrance.

He strode briskly into the kitchen, crop in hand, unable to keep from smirking. "Hello, boys."

John knew the word "breathless," of course. But at that moment, he felt like the air was _actually_ sucked from his lungs. He _forgot_ how to breathe _._ His autonomic nervous system kicked in a couple seconds later, and he gasped in a deep breath. His brain couldn't even come up with appropriate swear words for the situation. Just sort of a _guh._ Sherlock, in that outfit, wielding that crop, was the hottest, most sexual thing he had _ever_ seen.

Greg? Well, Greg just gaped, but he was right there with John on his opinion of Sherlock's new outfit. And accessory.

"I'd like to propose an experiment."

They both just nodded.

"Greg, I'd like to use the crop on you. Will you let me?"

 _Fuck._ (That was John.) He tried not to glower.

"Yes." No hesitation at all from Greg.

"Clothes off. Hands and knees in front of the coffee table."

Greg hurried into the adjoining room to comply, shedding his clothes as quickly as possible.

John's mind just kept repeating: _Why. Not. Me?_ If Sherlock was holding a riding crop, _he_ wanted to be on the other end of it. He fumed. "No." It came out angrier than he had intended.

Sherlock and Greg whirled around to look at John, who had stopped dead in his tracks.

"If you use that crop, you're using it on both of us at once." His voice was calmer, but leaving absolutely no doubt that he _meant_ it.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, paused, and then said in a breathless voice, "I'd like nothing better."

John released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. _Oh god. Thank god. Thank the merciful fucking god I don't even believe in. Breathe. It's going to be okay. Breathe._ He started to take off the rest of his clothes. Sherlock was staring at him. _Just breathe._

Sherlock _was_ staring at him. He'd completely failed to predict this, and he found that _very_ exciting. He'd not expected John to _want_ to be cropped – hadn't even thought there'd been a hope of it, actually. When John had said "No," he'd panicked. Surely, for reasons he didn't yet understand, this was where it all came crashing down. It was over, he'd fucked it up. John was angry, he knew that much. But he never expected to hear those next words, and his heart went from plummeting to soaring in the space of the time it took John to utter the sentence. _Yes. Oh god yes. It was going to be okay._

John and Greg knelt in front of him, naked, on hands and knees. Sherlock suddenly realized he hadn't locked the front door. _Well, if Mrs Hudson came in snooping now, that was her own damned fault._ He positioned himself behind the two men. "If you say stop, I'll stop. Understand?" "Yes, sir." _Ooh, both at the same time. Nice._

He started slowly, teasing them with the crop, running it over their bodies in light, long strokes. He did this for a little while, just playing with them. He could see the tension in their bodies start to ease a little. That was the idea. _Let your guard down._ He varied the location of the strokes. _Make them guess where it will be next._ He added the region between their legs. _Aha, the tension was back now, with the crop gliding over their balls like that._ Both of them were hard. He wasn't particularly surprised; he was too. He started to lightly slap their arse cheeks with the tip of the riding crop. It made a very satisfying _smack_ sound. They both flinched at the contact, but showed no signs of lasting pain. He continued, delighted to see the little pink riding crop tip shaped marks appearing on their skin. _Such a lovely pattern._

John knelt there, on his hands and knees, so glad he had _said_ something. He very nearly hadn't. He'd nearly stormed out of the room. He didn't care if Lestrade got to submit to Sherlock, but damned if _he_ was going to miss out on the opportunity. Part of him – the part that had catalogued Sherlock's smallest touch for months on end, the part that made his stomach fall out at the thought of that touch – all it wanted to do was submit to Sherlock, accept pain from him. Another part of him acknowledged he had dominant tendencies as well, and he was okay with that. It just expressed itself differently at different times. But right now, all he wanted was to feel the sting of the crop at Sherlock's hands. This was _exactly_ where he needed to be.

Greg, whose entire experience with submission (and pain, very briefly, with a slapped bum) had been in the previous twenty-four hours, wasn't having nearly the coherent train of thought John was having. It was more along the lines of: _Oh, that's not so bad. Sort of relaxing actually. Hmm. Oh dear god not there! Breathe. Ow! Ow! That stings! Oooh, but now it's getting nice and warm. Mmmm._ His brain helpfully kicked in a few endorphins to help him along, and he started to enjoy the ride.

Sherlock decide it was time to move things along a bit. He rubbed the full length of the riding crop back and forth horizontally across the backs of their legs, right below their arse cheeks. He did it long enough for them to get used to the idea. Then he removed it. He took a deep breath, and silently prayed he wasn't going to fuck this up. John first. He brought his hand back, not too far, and struck John on the arse. Hard enough to make a thin, pink mark. He made sure to hit him with the centre of the crop, so the end of the crop wouldn't wrap around and bite into his flesh. John gasped at the impact, and then breathed through it. _Interesting._ He did the same to Greg, who let out a small yelp. _Very interesting. Either their pain tolerances were very different, or John had done this before. His breath control through the pain seemed to indicate the latter._ Another blow, a centimetre below the previous one. Same reactions. _Wait. It didn't have to be either/or. Perhaps it was a pain tolerance level and level of experience issue. Need to keep that in mind._ A third blow, harder this time – the sound of the crop lingering in the air – same reaction from John, but Greg yelped loudly and moved away from the crop after the blow. He rubbed his hands over both of their wounds, gently caressing the red lines on their skin. John was breathing deeply, Greg in small shallow breaths. _Not good? Think._

"Greg, how are you doing?" There was a long pause. "I… I think I need to work up to this."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Come and sit here, beside me."

Greg moved and sat on the floor next to Sherlock, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. The experience had been a lot more intense than he'd expected, and he needed to calm himself down a little. Sherlock knelt down and put his arm around him. "You okay?" Greg met his eyes and nodded. Sherlock kissed him, chastely, and turned his attention to John.

"John, how are you doing?" _He knew the answer. He could feel it, hanging in the air. The question was just a formality. John wanted this, just as he did. "_ Please. I need more."

"You'll tell me when to stop?"

"Yes."

He swung the crop, with more force this time. John grunted, and then moaned with pleasure. Sherlock struck him again, a pattern forming like a ladder on John's arse and legs. Again. John no longer grunted, only moaned. "Three more. The same intensity, or harder?" "Harder." Sherlock pulled his arm back, and let the crop fly. The sound of it cut through the air, and landed with a harsh smack on John's arse. John groaned and breathed hard through the pain. Sherlock did it again. He wished he could see John's face. He wanted to see the need and the pain and the pleasure. "Last one." "Harder." Sherlock delivered one stinging blow, a blow like he'd used on the corpse at the morgue. John moaned. "Thank you. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached down and pulled John up into a strong embrace. John collapsed like a rag doll against him; head buried in the crook of his neck. He held him like that until John looked up at him, and smiled. "Thank you." John kissed him.

Sherlock was completely overcome with emotion. _No, not one emotion. Lots of them. It was confusing._ He hugged John more tightly to him, just wanting to hold him.

They eventually broke the embrace, both of them reaching for Greg and pulling him up to them. "You okay?" John asked. Greg smiled. "Yeah. Are you?" John grinned broadly. "Oh, yeah."

John didn't think he could explain it to Greg at the moment. He turned to Sherlock, and touched his cheek. "What about you? How are _you?_ " Sherlock's forehead was furrowed. He was deep in thought. "I hurt you, John." "I asked you to." "I… I sort of enjoyed it. It was thrilling. But I hurt you." "S'okay, Sherlock." He pulled him back in, this time holding Sherlock instead of the other way around. They stayed that way for a long time. Eventually, they pulled apart again.

Sherlock mentally noted that of all of them, John was now clearly the most emotionally stable. He didn't understand, and he was definitely going to have to talk to John about this.

John cheerfully suggested tea, and they agreed, in a bit of a daze. John went upstairs and found Sherlock's dressing gown, his own (for Greg), and some clothes for himself. He'd found the whole thing exhilarating. It had been a long time since he'd done anything like that, and it had been really cathartic. He felt like his batteries had been recharged. He guessed the same wasn't true for Greg and Sherlock. He went back downstairs and handed out dressing gowns. They sat at the table and waited for the water to boil, no one really saying anything. John made the tea and handed the steaming mugs around. They sipped at it.

John spoke first. "This stuff can be pretty intense. The emotional part takes some getting used to if you haven't done it before."

Sherlock and Greg both nodded in agreement. Neither had quite gotten the ride they were expecting. It wasn't a bad thing. John was right. It was just a lot more intense than they'd bargained for. John got up and fished out a hidden packet of biscuits from one of the cupboards. "I didn't know we had those!" He put them on a plate, and one by one, they ate them. And as the biscuits disappeared and the tea was drunk, the mood of the room returned to its normal state. They started to laugh and joke again, and they realized that they'd come out the other side of this, unscathed (well…) and everything was going to be fine.

Greg headed back to his flat. "Work tomorrow."

John and Sherlock retired to the main room – John in his chair and Sherlock on the settee.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'd like to ask you something…"

"Okay."

"Would you like to lay here on the settee with me? Because I'd like that."

John's heart actually stopped beating for a second. "I'd like that too."

Sherlock scooted towards the back, facing the room. John laid down next to him, his back to Sherlock's front. Spoons.

Sherlock's limbs folded around him, holding him tight. Sherlock breathed in the scent of John's hair, and now that he was holding John, began to confront some of these new, alien emotions he was feeling.

John just lay there, and glowed.


	9. Sunday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: d/s, riding crops, pain

**Sunday Night**

"John. Wake up."

"I'm already awake."

They were still curled up on the settee. It was dark outside, and they'd been dozing in and out of consciousness most of the evening.

"I need to ask you some questions about the experiment today."

"Okay."

"It didn't go as I'd planned, John."

"Sometimes these things don't."

"I was supposed to be in charge. But I failed. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"That doesn't mean you failed. Actually, if anything, it means you succeeded. What exactly do you think you're experimenting with here?"

"Sex, John."

John sighed.

"What?" He sounded more than a little defensive...

"Nothing."

"No, John, you clearly disagree. Why can't it just be about sex?"

 _Because some of us can't keep our feelings out of it, apparently. That's why. Change the subject to pain._ "I don't know. It's just more complicated with pain in the equation. You're playing with more brain chemicals."

"Why do you do it, John?" He touched the John's boxer-clad arse, gently. "It hurts, right?"

"Yeah, but it cuts through the noise as well. The mental noise. It lets me focus."

"Hm." Now he actually sounded interested. "How did you get involved in it?"

"Ugh, it's an ugly story. It really doesn't matter."

"Yes, John. It does. I want to know."

"It was a guy named James. He was at Bart's with me. He was the first guy I'd been with. He was into some light bondage, stuff like that. We played around with it a bit. Problem was, it turned out I liked it a lot more than he did. I wanted to take it a lot further than he was comfortable with. He freaked out, and it ended badly."

"Wait, if he freaked out, what did you end up doing about it?

Silence.

"John?"

"You're going to think this is… I… I don't even know what you're going to think."

"Tell me. What did you do?"

"I joined a group. Um, a sort of support group/play group for BDSM enthusiasts. They were safe, and respectful of limits, and I learned a lot. And it sure beat destroying the few dates I went on by trying to subtly bring up the topic of S&M. That sends most people running screaming, believe me. I discovered I can be dominant and submissive – people call it 'switch.' They both turn me on. The pain aspect is almost unrelated. For me, the dom/sub stuff is fun, and I enjoy working it into sex, but the pain… the pain doesn't even have to end in sex. I find it sexual, but it's almost a sex act in itself. It's more like brain sex, I guess."

Sherlock was silent. John panicked. "Say _something_ , please."

"I'm sorry, John. I was just thinking. Nothing you said bothers me in the least."

John actually sighed with relief.

Sherlock's mind had been back on the previous night ( _had it really only been last night?)_ when he'd experienced the brain-banishing orgasm at Greg's flat. Despite his enjoyment of the subsequent experiments, and orgasms, he'd not been able to replicate the effect. Perhaps this was worth trying. The dominance and submission certainly appealed to him, but he'd never considered the pain angle.

"John, would you crop me?"

John twisted his body around so he could face Sherlock. "Why?"

"I find it hard to get out of my head sometimes. Most of the time I don't want to, but there are times when it just gets to be too much - too much noise, too many thoughts. Last night, at Greg's, I had about twenty minutes of… I don't know what it was, but my brain wasn't there. It was nice. I thought perhaps it was orgasm related, but the other experiments didn't bear that out."

John had a sudden, slightly guilty, desire to tie Sherlock to the bed and pleasure him to climax over and over until the brain thing happened again. He considered mentioning it, but blushed instead. In the dim light, Sherlock didn't notice, and John was silently glad. He didn't want to derail the conversation. "Yeah, I will if you want me to. I have found it helps to be aroused first, though. It raises your pain tolerance and gets all the good neurochemicals going. Then you get the endorphins from the pain on top of it. I think that's what does it. I mean, stubbing my toe is just bloody painful - it does fuck all for me sexually."

Sherlock laughed.

John started to get aroused at the possibility of more _anything_ with Sherlock – and without Greg around. He shouldn't be so happy about that part of it, but he was.

Sherlock's kiss was gentle at first, his face all angles and planes as he moved closer to John. For a few seconds, it stayed that way. Then, lust and desire shot straight through John, and he pinned Sherlock to the settee, hands above his head, and kissed him fiercely. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, and arched his hips to grind up into John.

John repositioned Sherlock's hands together so he could hold them down with one hand. His other hand went straight for Sherlock's cock, and rubbed it, hard, through his dressing gown. Sherlock groaned again, and John broke the kiss, nipping at Sherlock's neck with small bites, and sucking on the small patch of skin just below his ear.

Sherlock had never had his arms pinned down before. He was surprised to find it went straight to his groin, just like the thought of using the riding crop on someone. What was it John had called it? Ah, yes. _Switch._ Huh. _This was just as arousing as when John had fucked him bent over the bed last night._ John started chewing on his neck, and that train of thought evaporated as he gave in to the sensation of it. His brain fought for control. "John, I want you to crop me. Please."

"Naked or clothed? It will hurt less clothed."

"No John, I want the pain. I want to see how it feels – what it does to me."

"I have three rules."

"What are they?"

"One. I know you. You tend to push yourself further than you should. You have to trust me to know when to stop. If I choose to stop, that's non-negotiable."

There was a pause. "Okay, John. What's the second?"

"When you say 'stop,' I will stop."

"Okay. The third?"

Now it was John's turn to pause. Sherlock wasn't going to like this. "I want you to talk about the experience at some point afterwards. These things can be a lot more emotional than you expect, and I don't want it adding to the noise in that head of yours. I want you to talk to me about it."

Sherlock, hands still pinned, stretched up to try and capture John's mouth in another kiss. "Agreed."

John decided that either Sherlock _really_ wanted this, or he hadn't heard the last bit. He desperately hoped this went well. He knew Sherlock would try almost anything in the name of experimentation, and he wanted him to enjoy this as much as he did.

He leaned down and kissed him passionately. Then, he broke the kiss and climbed off him, standing next to the settee. "Naked, hands and knees, on the settee." Sherlock complied. John sucked in a breath. God, he was beautiful. His long, lean body looked like some ancient marble sculpture in the dim light. And bloody hell, if there was ever an arse made for a riding crop, this was it. Oh, he _really_ hoped Sherlock enjoyed this, because he was completely hard and they hadn't even started yet. _Don't get so turned on that you're not paying attention to how he's doing._ Right. There was a balance to be, ahem, struck here.

He picked up the riding crop from the table. Sherlock was watching him. John knelt down so he was at eye level with him. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"And you promise me you won't push yourself too far just to see how far you can go?"

"I'll do my best."

 _That was probably a more honest answer, at least. Fair enough._

He stood back up, standing in front of the settee, where he could see the profile of Sherlock's face while he used the crop.

He started teasing Sherlock with the crop, rubbing it over him, and very lightly swatting him. He alternated these teasing strokes with long rubs of his palm over his arse, feeling the warmth starting to gather there. Slightly harder strokes – Sherlock was flinching now, but no sounds at all were escaping his mouth. "It's okay to react, you know. This isn't a caning at school. You don't have to be stoic about it. If you don't react, I can't tell how you're doing." Sherlock nodded.

The next stroke brought the audible reaction he was hoping for. The intensity of the stroke was the same as the previous ones, but instead of just flinching, Sherlock let out a small moan afterwards. John mentally sighed with relief. That was a good sound. That was a sound he'd heard a lot over the past twenty-four hours. "I want you to tell me when you're ready for me to make the strokes harder."

"Harder."

He moved slightly lower on his arse, making sure not to hit the same area twice, his arm going back further this time. The crop hit him with a loud smack. "Ugh." Shallow breaths. Body tensed.

"Breathe deeply. Breathe through it." Deep breaths, returning to normal. The tension slowly releasing from his body.

He hit him again. "Yesss…" This time there was less shock and more pleasure – breathing into it more, his body accepting it instead of fighting it.

Again. Same reaction. "Harder."

 _Sherlock Holmes. Precocious. What a shock._

He hit him, harder, Sherlock's body bowing under the force of it. "Nnggghhhh." They were both breathing heavily now. He could see the marks on Sherlock's arse, a pattern of lines like some modernist painting. He was surprised to see Sherlock's cock was rock hard, heavily swinging beneath his body. He really _was_ enjoying this. John had half expected this to be just an experiment in pain.

He kept at it, and Sherlock kept taking it. Brilliantly, in fact - moaning softly, breathing through it, his body quivering in anticipation of the next blow.

"Harder, John." Sherlock's voice was low and breathy.

That phrase nearly undid John. It went straight to his crotch.

He examined Sherlock's arse. It was covered in a tight mass of pink lines and some low welts from the previous round of blows. Sherlock gasped as John rubbed his hand gently over his arse. "Ready?"

"Yes, John." _Oh, god._ Flashes of those same words, whispered while he'd fucked him bent over Greg's bed. It had been the moment when he'd realized he was in over his head – realized he was in love with this impossible man.

Shaking slightly, he prepared to give Sherlock a blow that would leave a serious welt. He took a deep breath, and let the crop fly. "Nnnggggghhhhhhh."

That was all John could take. He grabbed Sherlock's dark curls, pulled his head back, and kissed him fiercely. "Sherlock. I need you. In me. Right now."

He ripped off his shirt and boxers, and climbed onto the settee, pushing Sherlock up and sliding underneath him. Sherlock grabbed the lube from the table and slicked up his straining cock. Fucking John in the arse was a brilliant idea. John threw one leg over the back of the settee, and tilted his arse up to give Sherlock better access. Sherlock moved to slick up his fingers, and John stopped him. "No, don't. I want you in me. No preparation. I want it hard."

Sherlock added more lube to his cock, and knelt between John's legs, hooking his other leg with his arm and pulling him upwards as he leaned over him. He lined up his slick cock, and as slowly as he could, pushed himself into John. _God, so tight._

John felt the slow rubbing slide of Sherlock inside him. He wanted it like this. He didn't want it to be an easy, slick thrust. He wanted to remember every second of it. It wasn't painful, it was glorious. His eyes were on Sherlock's face the whole time, memorizing his expression. Sherlock's eyes were closed, fluttering, a low moan escaping his beautiful lips.

Sherlock's toes curled as he pushed slowly inside John. _Fucking hell._ It seemed to go on forever, but then he was buried, balls-deep inside the good doctor. He opened his eyes to see John's heavily-lidded eyes looking directly into his. Something tugged at the back of his mind, but he was too preoccupied to concentrate. He started thrusting slowly, John moaning beneath him. John's body adjusted quickly, and Sherlock's pace quickened.

John tried desperately to memorize the details of Sherlock's every movement, and the sensations they were causing him. It wasn't even remotely possible. He gave himself over to the sensation of it all. "Harder, Sherlock."

Sherlock happily obliged, pounding into John, balls slapping against his skin with every thrust. "Not going to last much longer, John…"

"Me either…"

Sherlock could feel his release building. He wanted John to come first. He reached for John's cock.

"Just… fuck me. Almost there."

Sherlock braced himself and drove himself into John like his life depended on it. The tight coil in his belly released, violently, and he gasped as he came deep inside John.

John, still watching Sherlock's face, saw his expression change as his orgasm was wrenched from him. The look alone was enough to send him over the edge, and he came hard, his release spurting onto his stomach.

Sherlock collapsed onto John, burying his head in John's neck. "Oh god, John, that was amazing."

"Yeah…"

They kissed lazily. "How's your brain?"

"Elsewhere, I think. Thank you."

"How's your arse?" He rubbed his hand over it, gently. It was still warm, and he could feel some of the welts.

"It's good. I liked it."

"I like your arse too." Giggling. _I probably shouldn't have said that. Ah well._

They were both exhausted, and happy, and neither of them wanted to move. They curled up around each other, and slept.


	10. Sunday Dinner

Mycroft Holmes sat at the large wooden desk in his study, scanning the live video feeds from Sherlock's flat. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't spend all his time spying on his brother. Usually, he had Someone Else do it. However, this morning he'd received a text from Someone Else, telling him Sherlock and John had not returned to the flat the previous evening.

He'd called the central headquarters, furious. "Why am I only hearing about this now? I should have been told last night. Well, do you know where he went?" They didn't. "Bloody well find out then!" Someone was going to get sacked over this. They were supposed to keep track of Sherlock at all times. Letting him disappear – overnight, at that – was completely unacceptable. Who knew what mess Sherlock had gotten himself into this time. Could he be using again? John seemed to be a good influence on him. He didn't think so. Still, it was unlike Sherlock to be gone all night.

There was nothing on the video feeds of 221B. There was definitely no one there. Sherlock's bed was unmade, but that was standard. John's bed was neatly made and hadn't been slept in.

The phone rang. The road camera network had been used to track the taxi Sherlock took yesterday. He'd gone to Detective Inspector Lestrade's flat. _Now, that was odd. Sherlock had never visited him outside of work. Perhaps some new case?_ "What do you mean, you don't know if he left or not?" D.I. Lestrade was not on the regular surveillance list. That would have to change. He knew who Lestrade was, of course. He'd certainly run into him by way of Sherlock more than once. He had a bit of a _thing_ for him actually _. He had an ex-wife though. Most likely straight – such a waste._ "Well, get a feed up on his flat exterior now, then, and patch that through as well." A new window popped up on one of the three monitors on the desk, showing the door to the flat. "I want to be notified the second you either spot Sherlock or Lestrade. Or John for that matter." He planned on sitting here, watching the footage himself, but it never hurt to have multiple people watching.

He hurried to the kitchen. He quickly made himself a large pot of tea, and grabbed three digestive biscuits and put them on a plate. He brought the whole pot, along with a china teacup, a small jug of milk, and the digestives, piled on a tray, back to the study. If he was going to have to do this, he might as well not suffer.

He poured himself a cup. _For more than three months now, John had been living there. They hadn't slept together. He wasn't sure_ why _John was still living there. Sherlock seemed to drive him nuts a lot of the time. The only odd event had been three weeks ago. John had come back home slightly later than Sherlock one night. Sherlock had gotten upset, but they'd not been able to figure out why, even with the audio feed. He assumed John enjoyed the adrenaline rush of solving cases with Sherlock, but was still surprised this was enough to offset Sherlock's abysmal personality._

The phone rang. "Really?" He switched to the feed covering Lestrade's flat. All _three_ of them were standing there, waiting for a taxi. _Had they_ all _been there all night? Surely if it was this important of a case, he would have heard about it by now._ "Nothing from the Yard? Then what are they bloody well doing there? No, that was a rhetorical question. Thank you."

 _Sherlock looked… odd. Relaxed. John looked pleased with himself. Lestrade looked fucking giddy. What the bleeding hell was going on?_ They got in the taxi, and he used the traffic camera system to follow it. It was obvious where they were going. 221B.

He leaned back in the plush leather chair and munched on a digestive biscuit. _Well, one way or another, I'll know what's going on soon enough._

The taxi pulled up outside the flat. _John looked ill at ease._ Mrs. Hudson waylaid them in the hallway ( _such a busybody, that woman_ ). He'd tried paying her off for information, of course, but she'd refused. After John's refusal to spy on Sherlock, he'd just upped the level of electronic surveillance in the flat to cover any contingencies he thought he might be missing. It hadn't been difficult; the technology was so good these days - practically invisible.

They headed up the stairs. He turned on the audio feed and switched the video to the kitchen. John had started to make tea. _No, there was no way this was happening._ His mind could barely process the fact that Sherlock was _rubbing himself lasciviously against John._ Then, Sherlock started babbling about Lestrade keeping John entertained, and it was all Mycroft's long, slender fingers could do to find the menu option for Record Video. This was not what he'd been expecting at all. _Clearly my gaydar needs some serious service_. John was getting some serious service of his own. Lestrade was _so_ his type, and he appeared to be quite the eager submissive as well. Mycroft could feel himself getting hard. He got up and locked the door to the study. He settled back into his chair, and reached one hand into his pajamas. Greg had his hands tied behind his back and John's whole cock in his mouth. Sherlock had gone. Mycroft didn't really care where. He stroked himself to the same rhythm John was using to fuck Greg's face. He came shortly after Greg and John did, amazed that Greg had been able to climax without any help from John.

It was the orgasm, really. It always put him in that sort of dopamine-happy unwary state that he really couldn't afford in his position. So, it was somewhat of a shock when Sherlock waltzed into the kitchen wearing leather trousers ( _weren't those from that party?)_ wielding a riding crop.

His first thought was a horrifyingly lewd thought about his younger brother. His second thought was " _Oh dear god_ " and he shut off the monitors. A very small part of his mind was still occupied with the image of Sherlock in those trousers. The rest of his mind was actively trying to destroy the very small part of his mind, but eventually gave up. He didn't even want to know. _No, that was a lie. He desperately wanted to know. He certainly wanted to know more about the Detective Inspector._ But the thought of Lestrade with Sherlock – he just couldn't handle it. It wasn't fair. It was never fair. Why was it always Sherlock who had all the luck?

In his haste to turn off the monitors, he'd forgotten to turn off the audio feed. Sherlock proposing to crop Greg. Greg agreeing. John disagreeing. Both of them, then. _Naked in front of the coffee table._ It took all his willpower, and then some, not to turn the monitors back on. _I can't handle this._ He left the room, and called Anthea. "Have them get my car ready. Notify me as soon as Lestrade leaves Baker Street." He could make it to Greg's flat from here faster than Greg could from Baker Street.

It was over an hour before Greg left. _Don't think about what they've been doing._ He thought about what they'd been doing. The debauched images in his mind were worse than what actually happened. (Then again, he wasn't aware of the activities of the previous evening – for the best, really.)

He'd cleaned himself up and dressed in one of his favourite suits. Grabbing his brolly, he went downstairs to meet the car. He was going to have a little chat with the Detective Inspector.

He had the car stop a couple of doors away from the entrance – less obvious that way. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say to Greg. He knew he couldn't keep him away from Sherlock on a daily basis – they were practically co-workers. What he _really_ wanted to do was convince Greg that he was sleeping with the wrong Holmes brother.

Greg got out of the taxi.

"Detective Inspector."

Greg looked down the pavement in surprise. "Mycroft? What are you doing here? What's going on?" _Something big, if he's here. Oh no. Why did these things always have to happen on the weekend? Why_ this _weekend?_

"Something's come up. Would you come with me, please?"

Greg sighed. All he really wanted was a long shower and a nap. Today had been wonderful, but completely exhausting. "Honestly, can't it wait until tomorrow morning?"

"Do you really think I'd be here if it could?"

Sigh. "Do I have time to change?"

Mycroft remembered the _incident_ with the trousers in Sherlock's kitchen and tried not to grin. "I think that could be arranged."

"Do you want to come in and wait?"

"Thank you." He followed Greg up the stairs. This hadn't been the plan, but he could work with it.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one in the family with a keen sense of observation. Over the years, Mycroft had honed his senses in order to keep an eye out for his younger sibling. So, it was only natural that when he entered Greg's flat, he immediately scanned it for anything out of the ordinary. The tube of lube on the kitchen table certainly qualified as out of the ordinary. He tried to glimpse into the bedroom, but couldn't really see anything from his vantage point.

"Make yourself comfortable." Greg made his way down the hallway. "Do I have time for a quick shower?"

"Certainly." Mycroft sat on the settee and waited for the shower to start. He placed his brolly on the floor, counted to slowly to thirty, and made his way to the bathroom. Greg was in the shower with his back to him, shampooing his hair. Oblivious.

Greg was more than a little irritated. _At least he was getting a shower_. He'd wanted some time to himself this afternoon to process what had happened. It had been such a bizarre weekend, first with John, and then with Sherlock as well. Christ, it had been years since he'd had sex, and now this. It was ridiculous. And now, on top of it all, Mycroft had shown up with some fucking _Security Issue_ that needed his immediate attention. _Damn it all to hell._

Mycroft had always been a bit of a voyeur, ever since he'd discovered he could covertly observe the servant's bathing quarters when he was growing up. Some things don't change much. He stood there, (unbeknownst to him, in the exact spot Sherlock had stood just that morning) waiting for Greg to turn around. He admired Greg's body – strong back and legs, nice arse. Nice arse covered in red marks. _Oh god, they_ had _gone through with that then. Thoughts began to fill his mind of Greg as a submissive._ His _submissive._

If there was one area in which the Holmes brothers were remarkably similar, it was their lack of social skills - or, more to the point, their inability to predict people's reactions to their lack of social skills.

Greg turned around, and nearly jumped out of his skin. "Bloody hell, Mycroft! What the _fuck_ are you doing? And what is it with you two and bathrooms for christsakes?"

Mycroft didn't register the last part, which was probably for the best. "I need to talk to you, Greg."

"I know, you mentioned that already. Can't it fucking wait until I'm done with my shower?"

Mycroft silently cursed himself. He hadn't actually pictured this happening. His mental image had only gotten as far as him watching Greg, not as far as Greg turning around and getting ready to throttle him.

"Yes, of course, sorry." He turned and left the bathroom. _That didn't go well. Need to come up with a better plan._ He couldn't help but take a quick mental inventory of the bedroom as he left. _Two dressing gowns._ _Three pillows._ That confirmed some of his suspicions about last night. Back in the front room, he devised a new plan. Well, a plan, anyway. He made a quick phone call.

Greg called from down the hallway. "Are we having this little chat here, or are we going out?"

"Out."

"Do I need to dress up for it?"

Mycroft was tempted to say yes. He loved the way Greg looked in a suit. But there was really no point in making him more upset than he already was. "No."

Random grumblings came from the direction of the bedroom, but Greg soon appeared in a nice looking jumper and trousers. "This had better be really important."

"I assure you, it is." _If this didn't work, Greg was going to kill him._

The waiting car sped them back to downtown London, where Mycroft's club was located. It was the sort of place that had no identifying signs, just an anonymous door with polished brass hardware. Inside, it was decorated with dark wood and plush oriental rugs, the antique oil paintings on the walls worth a small fortune. Greg turned to Mycroft and asked quietly, "Who the hell are we meeting here?" This was not the sort of workplace he was used to. He couldn't imagine what this security crisis could possibly have to do with him. Not if they were meeting someone _here._ He started to wish he'd dressed in something nicer.

Mycroft led them back to one of the private meeting rooms, and closed the door behind them. There were comfortable leather settees and armchairs scattered around, and a large table off to the side. "Have a seat." He motioned towards one of the chairs, and took one facing him.

"So, what's going on? Where's everyone else?"

"I need to talk to you, Greg."

"So you keep saying. Now, what, the _hell_ , is going on?" His voice was low, but insistent.

Mycroft cleared his throat, nervously. He hadn't come up with a better plan, so he was going to have to go with Brutal Honesty. "You're aware that I've been keeping an eye on Sherlock since his previous drugs problem, I suspect?"

"Sure." Greg had no idea what this had to do with anything.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of how much of an eye, er, that entails."

The bottom fell out of Greg's stomach and landed in a heap on the plush oriental rug. _Bugger. Damn. Blast. Fuck._ "Just how much _does_ that entail, exactly?" No point in admitting anything just yet.

Mycroft looked a little sheepish. "Five live video feeds and a couple of audio feeds."

"You _watched?"_ Greg was incredulous. Damn. He was supposed to be playing this like he didn't know, but it was obvious Mycroft knew. This couldn't be happening. Mycroft Holmes was blackmailing him. His career was over.

"I, um, saw enough to realize what was happening."

"Look Mycroft, I don't know what you want. God knows it can't be money, so what is it? I'd really, _really_ like to keep my job, if that's at all possible."

Mycroft furrowed his brow and looked confused. "Oh, god no, I'm so sorry. I'm not trying to blackmail you. I'm trying to…" He trailed off. "I'm trying to apologize. For having found out like I did."

Now Greg was confused. Why the hell would Mycroft be apologizing to him? It wasn't really a Holmes trait.

"I took the liberty of ordering us a meal, by way of an apology. Or I can take you home immediately; it's entirely up to you."

Greg still looked confused. He _was_ hungry. He didn't think his earlier "snack" counted for much in the way of protein. "Um, sure. Food would be great, thanks." He was relieved this wasn't blackmail, but really, _what the actual fuck?_

"Would you like chicken or steak?"

 _This was just surreal._ "Um, steak would be great, thanks. Medium."

Mycroft pressed a small button and said "Two for the steak, please. Both medium."

There was a quiet knock on the door. An efficient young man dressed in a tuxedo came in with a small wooden trolley and set the table for dinner. This also included a bottle of red and white wine, both of which looked expensive, and a bottle of sixteen year old single malt scotch ( _Lagavulin._ _Christ.)_ Greg continued to stare at Mycroft in utter bewilderment.

"Can I offer you a drink, Greg?"

"Sure. I think I could use one. Scotch. Neat."

Mycroft poured the amber liquid into two crystal tumblers and offered one to Greg.

Greg took it, and inhaled the aroma. Smoky and complex. Good stuff.

Mycroft raised his glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

He took a sip of the scotch. _Damn, that was nice._ The slight burn made its way down his throat. The young man finished setting the table and quietly left the room.

"Okay, what the hell is going on? If I didn't know better, this seems more like a date than an apology." He'd meant it as a joke.

Mycroft blushed.

 _Holy fuck. Mycroft as well? Was there anyone in this family who was straight? Perhaps we're all gay._ That happy little thought danced around in his head for a moment before returning to the surreal landscape at hand.

Mycroft stammered. "Um. It really is an apology, but I'd be happy if it were a date. I… I've always had a bit of a _thing_ for you, but I thought you were straight."

"Not so much, no." Greg realized he'd never given the matter of Mycroft's attractiveness or sexuality much thought. He'd always been too infatuated with Sherlock to really notice anyone else. "How much did you see, exactly? Today."

Mycroft blushed harder. He'd hoped this wouldn't come up, but he supposed it was only fair. "I saw you and John in the kitchen. And I heard part of the negotiations between the three of you after that."

Now Greg blushed. That must have been quite a show. "Do you have my flat bugged too?"

"No."

 _Oh thank god._ He looked at Mycroft. He wasn't nearly as striking as his brother, but he wasn't unattractive, either.

"So where does this leave us, then?"

"Having a nice dinner together?" Mycroft replied, a hopeful expression on his face.

Greg had to smile. "Yeah, okay." He could see the some of the tension leave Mycroft's body as he said it.

"You have to understand something. What we were doing – with Sherlock – he wanted to conduct _experiments._ I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, but I don't want you to think this has been going on for ages. It's, um, not the sort of thing I normally do. "

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly and was not surprised about the experiment part. _So, Sherlock had finally discovered that sex could be enjoyable. What on earth had taken him so long_?

"I know this is none of my business, Greg, and you don't have to answer, but do you know _why_? Why now? I mean, he's never really shown any interest in anyone that I know of. I thought perhaps he and John…" He trailed off. "But the earlier footage from the flat proved that wrong." What could have instigated this?

Greg blushed. He wasn't sure he wanted to go into this. He wasn't sure if it was fair to reveal John's obsession with Sherlock, or Sherlock's jealousy of him and John. "I'm not sure that's my information to divulge."

"No, no, of course not. I'm sorry."

There was a quiet knock at the door.

"Come in."

Dinner arrived, and damned if it wasn't the most amazing dinner Greg had seen in months, possibly ever. He didn't have the money for this on his salary. The decadent-looking steak was done to perfection, with heaps of mashed potatoes and carrots on the side. "Red or white, sir?" "Red, please." The young man poured Greg a glass. He clearly already knew that Mycroft drank red, and filled his glass as well.

"So, what _is_ this place?"

"It's a club, of sorts. Sort of a perk of the job, really."

"Nice."

They ate in silence for a while, enjoying their food – Mycroft stealing glances at Greg when he thought Greg wouldn't notice. ( _Greg did._ )

Mycroft pressed a different button, and the young man appeared to clear their plates. Mycroft looked at Greg. "Dessert? They have a lovely chocolate torte."

Greg smiled. "Sure. Why not."

Their server disappeared, and then returned shortly, bearing two slices of rich chocolate torte drizzled with raspberry sauce.

"Do you do this often, Mycroft?" He was smiling.

 _God, it was nice to see him smile._ "Do what, exactly?"

"Kidnap people and take them out for fantastic dinners."

"Um, no. This would be the first time." He paused, unsure if he should continue. "But I'd be thrilled to do it again if you'd let me."

"Are you… asking me out on a _date_?"

"I believe I am, yes."

"You know, I'd actually like that very much. Things are a bit complicated though, what with the _experiments_ and all. I need to talk to John and Sherlock and work a few things out first."

 _That wasn't a "no."_ He could live with that. "Of course."

Greg smiled again, clearly amused that he was being _courted_ by Mycroft Holmes. He had definitely not seen this coming.


	11. Late Sunday Night

Greg sat in his armchair, feeling a little dazed. Mycroft had just dropped him back off at his flat. The ride home had been quiet, but not uncomfortable. He'd seemed to understand Greg's need to process (and disentangle himself from) the events of the past couple days before embarking on something new. _Something new. God, it had been so long since he'd… dated?_ After a failed marriage ( _sometimes the obvious – in this case, his sexuality - didn't always make itself apparent until it was too late_ ), he'd pretty much given up on relationships of any sort. There had been some sexual encounters with other men, but nothing he'd term 'dating' – more like 'sex until one of them got bored.' Usually him. Then, work had gotten more and more involving, and the sex had just sort of ended. And that had been that, until that night with John in the hallway.

Certainly, in the last two days, he'd experienced more pleasure than he had in years. He'd finally gotten to be with Sherlock, in ways he couldn't even have imagined. And yet… it had almost _defused_ his obsession with the man, somehow. He'd spent so long cataloguing every touch and building him up in his head – and it wasn't that Sherlock had failed to meet those expectations – quite the opposite. It was just… the horrid, aching, longing was gone, replaced with a sort of joy at being allowed to be a part of the whole experience.

Oh. And then there was John. Christ. If this whole experience had helped defuse _his_ Sherlock obsession, he was pretty sure it had done exactly the opposite for John. Between the ecstatic kisses, the towel thing after the shower, and his reaction to not getting cropped, it seemed pretty obvious. He was pretty damned sure John was in-over-his-head in _love_ with Sherlock. Which he got, but damn. That was not going to be an easy road, especially with Sherlock being a complete idiot in the feelings department.

He needed to talk to John. He needed to talk to them both.

* * *

John and Sherlock were a sleeping, sticky collection of post-coital body parts on the settee. Generally, those parts were doing a fine job of keeping each other warm, but Sherlock's longer legs meant his feet inevitably got cold, and he woke up. It was late; he wasn't sure what time it was. John was curled up in his arms, snoring lightly. _It was nice._ Sherlock tried to see if he could stretch far enough to reach his dressing gown without waking John. _Damn._ Sherlock's movement woke John. "Sorry, John. I was cold. I just wanted to cover us up."

John opened his eyes. Sherlock's face was inches from his, their bodies still entwined. _No problem, as long as no one is going anywhere._ Sherlock was staring intently at him, brow suddenly creased, like he was trying to dig up a long forgotten memory. His teeth tugged at his bottom lip. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Earlier. Your eyes - when you were watching me - they reminded me of something, but I couldn't think what. I still can't. I feel like it's important."

 _Oh god, does he know? Does he know how I feel? Fuck. I am not ready for this._

Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up from the settee, fairly flying across the room. "Bloody hell. That bastard! That insufferable bastard! Where's my phone?"

"What? What's going on?"

" _Mycroft_ , John. I think he has the flat under surveillance. I've suspected it for a while. I don't know how much. It didn't matter before, but I'll lay odds our entire afternoon has made its way across my dear brother's computer screen. I have to tell Lestrade, he needs to know what he might be in for."

John's stomach decided nausea was the current order of the day, and moved to make that happen. John sat up, cradling his head in his hands.

Sherlock found his phone and texted Lestrade, hoping he was awake.

Mycroft might have flat bugged. Not sure what he'll do with info. Need to talk.

SH

Within seconds, he had a reply.

Confirmed. Weird evening after I left. Not blackmailing me though. Yes, need to talk to both of you. Tomorrow?

GL

Sherlock texted Mycroft.

Whatever equipment you have in this flat, I want it OFF. NOW. We need to talk.

SH

I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. I am merely concerned with your well-being.

MH

"Bastard." Sherlock paused. "I'll bet he watched, too."

"What?" There was the smallest note of hysteria in John's voice.

"He always had a bit of a thing for watching, even when he was younger. I caught him once, watching the servants. I think a penchant for observation runs in the family." Sherlock was sounding much calmer than John would have expected – almost conversational.

"Doesn't that bother you?" John was incredulous.

"That he bugged the flat? Of course it does! It's completely beyond the pale."

"Um, no, well, yes, there is that. But that he might have watched – doesn't that bother you?"

Sherlock stopped his manic pacing, and looked at John, quizzically. "Why, should it?"

John just stared at him.

"It's just sex, John. From what I understand, people do this all the time."

"But, he's your brother…"

Sherlock still looked confused. "I don't see what that has to do with it."

 _Ah, to live in the bubble of the upper class. Societal norms go completely out the leaded glass windows._

"Nevermind."

He texted Mycroft again.

Are they off yet? NOW. And what the hell did you do to Greg?

SH

Yes, they're off. But I'd at least find a blanket if I were you. Greg is fine.

MH

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and hurled the phone at the settee. John grabbed it and read the text. He turned three shades of red and grabbed for something to cover himself.

Sherlock texted Greg.

Mycroft alleges the equipment is off now. Can you come by tomorrow at lunch?

SH

Yes.

GL

Then, John's phone, sitting on the coffee table, got a message. Sherlock picked it up and read it, tossing the phone to John with a quizzical expression.

You need to tell him.

GL

John buried his head in his hands, again. His body decided that wasn't nearly enough comfort and pulled his legs up to his chest for good measure. _He could_ not _do this right now._

Sherlock was immediately by his side, his arm around him, all traces of anger completely gone from his voice. "John, what's wrong?"

John sighed, heavily. He struggled with how to say this. _Surely, Sherlock already knew from Greg's text?_ No, this was Sherlock.

"What did Greg mean?"

John felt hot tears stinging his eyes. _It was nice while it lasted, but Greg was right, of course. It wasn't fair to either of them. Well, Sherlock might not care if they were just experiments, but it was going to kill him in the long run – being able to have the sex but none of the feelings reciprocated. Perhaps it was better that it all end now, before it got worse than it already had._

"John, say something. What's wrong?"

"Sherlock, I… I can't be… part of these experiments."

Sherlock looked devastated. "What? Why not? What did I do?" Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him close, holding him tightly. "I'm so sorry. Whatever I did, I can make it better. I can undo it. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

John pulled back slightly and looked at him, his eyes still full of tears. "No, you fool. It's not you. It's me. I think I'm in love with you. And I have no idea what to do about it."

"Oh." That was all Sherlock could think to say. He honestly had not seen that coming. His brain, far better with these things than it sometimes let on, screamed at him. _At least hold him, you idiot. Tell him it's okay._ Sherlock did so, nearly crushing John against him, whispering soothing things in his ear. "It's okay. It's really all okay. Shhh. It's going to be fine. Shhh." They slowly rocked back and forth, holding on to each other for dear life.

Sherlock's mind betrayed the calmness of his body, racing with the new information. He'd known John was attracted to him – John had told him as much when he'd asked – but what did _this_ mean? Did it mean he was leaving? Was that what this meant? He said, in a small, pained voice, "Don't leave me, John. Please don't _leave_."

John made a choked off noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I don't think I could if I tried."

With that reassurance, Sherlock's brain finally shut up a bit and let them get on with holding each other. Sherlock fished around with his free arm and covered them up with his dressing gown – a warm silk cocoon of comfort. John's revelation had been like looking at a landscape he'd known for years, but from an entirely different perspective. The features were the same, but it was all different somehow. He knew everyone thought he had no heart, no emotions, but it wasn't true. He just never put those on the line, because, really, who would ever want to reciprocate?

Apparently, John did.


	12. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Warnings: mildly incestuous thoughts, d/s, and slashy sex.**   
> _

Greg Lestrade was not having a good morning. It was Monday, and reality was a bitch. He'd been blissed out on Planet Sherlock all weekend. Unfortunately, life had continued for the rest of London, and the Yard was a madhouse. He was finding it hard to focus on his work (to say the least). He'd heard no more from Mycroft, or John for that matter. Well, either he'd told Sherlock or he hadn't. He'd find out soon enough.

Sherlock woke up early. John was still asleep, in the same position he'd been in when they'd gone to bed. They'd shared John's bed. Sherlock's had contained an unfortunate experiment concerning the breeding cycle of the common housefly. That was why he'd been sleeping on the settee for a week. He grabbed his phone and texted Greg.

 _What happened last night with Mycroft?_

 _SH_

Should he just tell Sherlock now? It would give him a chance to process it before the lunch meeting. Perhaps he could find out if John had said anything.

 _Mycroft kidnapped me for a … date(?) Is everything okay there?_

 _GL_

 _He does a lot of kidnapping. Not for dates though._

 _John announced that he feels affection towards me. Things are fine._

 _SH_

Greg nearly spit out his tea all over his paperwork. Well, that was good about John at least. Perhaps people didn't give Sherlock enough credit. Time would tell on that one.

 _Does he date much?_

 _GL_

 _No. Aren't you upset about the surveillance? Because I'm about ready to throttle him._

 _SH_

Why wasn't he? The truth, it seemed, was that he was willing to let both Holmes brothers do almost anything and get away with it. He'd felt the familiar knot in his stomach the second he'd gotten Sherlock's text message. Apparently, things with Sherlock were not as "defused" as he'd thought.

 _I'm not surprised. See you at lunch._

 _GL_

By this point, John had woken up, and they went downstairs so Sherlock could refuse to eat breakfast. It was practically a time-honoured ritual by this point. John making tea and toast, Sherlock insisting he didn't want any. "Breakfast?"

"Yes, John. That would be lovely."

John turned to him with an incredulous look on his face. "You're joking, right?"

"No. I can't promise it will be a regular occurrence, but I decided I should at least _try_ and be easier to live with.

John completely forgot he had been pouring the tea. The scalding tea poured over his hand, pulling his attention back to the counter. "Bloody hell!" He ran his hand under the cold water.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and winced. "Sorry."

"Not your fault. But stop biting your lip like that, or you might be."

Sherlock stopped biting his lip, ran his tongue over it slowly, and then bit it harder. "Promise?"

The word was barely out of his mouth before John had pushed him against the counter, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a searing kiss. John pushed his leg between Sherlock's and slowly ground against him as he devoured him.

 _I'm starting to see why John is so keen on breakfast._ Sherlock groaned and grabbed John's arse, pulling him in closer.

* * *

Greg was at his computer, typing up more documentation for the case. He kept glancing at the clock on the wall. It wasn't making time go any faster. He kept thinking about his date with Mycroft, and then sex with Sherlock, and sex with John, and then the sex he _hadn't_ had with Mycroft, and the sex he wasn't sure he wanted to give up with Sherlock and John. _What the fuck? Years of nothing and now he had the libido of a seventeen year old?_ _He was already getting hard just thinking about it. Bloody hell._ He got up from the desk and muttered something about an early lunch meeting to his assistant. It was nowhere near time to go over to Baker Street, but perhaps he could get out and get some air first. He clearly wasn't getting any work done. He walked outside and started heading towards a nearby park.

The sleek, black car pulled up alongside him. The window rolled down. "Good morning, Detective Inspector. I thought I might catch you before your meeting."

"How did you…?" He shook his head, not really wanting to know the answer. "Never mind."

Mycroft smiled, innocently. He wasn't very good at it.

 _He needs lessons from John in how to do that._ Greg got into the car.

"I was having the most boring meeting with the Prime Minister this morning, and I couldn't stop thinking about seeing you in the shower yesterday. It was quite distracting."

"You like to watch, don't you." It wasn't a question. "Just like your brother." There was no malice in it, just a statement of fact, tinged with the faintest rose-coloured edges of lust.

Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed, uncomfortably. Better not to go there. _The image of Sherlock in those trousers with a crop. Oh dear lord, please don't go there. Not now._ "We do share some similarities, it seems." He tried to breathe deeply, trying not to let his thoughts betray him.

"How much of the footage did you watch, Mycroft?" _God that excited him. Had he seen him getting his arse whipped?_

"After we had dinner, I went back and watched the rest. With the crop. I'm sorry." Mycroft's voice was strained. What he failed to tell Greg was that he had watched all of the footage, not just the sexual parts. He had seen them making tea and eating biscuits and finding themselves afterwards. He had watched the innocuous kitchen footage over and over, unable to take his eyes off Greg. The kitchen camera had been aimed just right, with a good view of him. Mycroft had drunk in every detail. He'd stayed up half the night watching it. The final time, he just watched Greg's mouth. He'd brought himself to orgasm while watching Greg's eminently fuckable mouth eat Jammie Dodgers. (What he didn't _yet_ know was that this had permanently added Jammie Dodgers to his already lengthy list of personal kinks.) Right then, he'd known he needed Gregory Lestrade like he needed his well-made umbrella; that is to say – by his side whenever possible. Greg clearly had submissive tendencies, and he was more than qualified to educate him in the ways of dominance and submission.

"I'm not sorry."

Mycroft looked at him with undisguised lust in his eyes. "Greg, I feel you should know that some of my… sexual proclivities are fairly… unusual."

"Over the last couple days I've discovered a few I didn't know I had myself."

"Do any of them involve being on your knees in the backseat of a car?" He tried to make it sound like a joke. He really did.

Greg glanced around. He must be joking. Perhaps he wasn't. The windows were blacked out. There was a "privacy screen." He'd always suspected this sort of thing went on in the backs of these sorts of cars. He was getting hard just thinking about it. "Perhaps."

Mycroft Holmes had never been content with ordinary lovers. Like his brother, he was prone to boredom. To his great pleasure, Greg was not proving to be particularly ordinary. If Greg wasn't interested in a d/s relationship, it was probably going to get boring fast, even with that mouth. There was only one way to find out. "Would you like me to train you in the art of submission, Greg?"

Greg breathed slowly. "Yes… sir."

Mycroft could no longer restrain himself. He pulled Greg to him, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss. Greg moaned into it, unable to hide his pleasure at the forcefulness of it. _Mycroft is good at this. Really good._ He hadn't expected that, and it went straight to his cock.

Mycroft pulled away, Greg whimpering slightly at the loss of his mouth. Mycroft was breathing more heavily than usual, but trying to retain his composure. "Tell me what you want, Greg. We can do this the traditional way, where I take you out for dinners and act like a complete gentleman and we work up to this. Or we can skip to the part where I ravish you now. This decision is entirely yours."

Greg wasn't much for long courtships. He climbed on top of Mycroft, straddling his legs, and started kissing him again. He could feel Mycroft's hardness through the material of his expensive suit, and rubbed against him as they kissed.

Mycroft broke the kiss. "Rule number one. You tell me to stop, and I will stop. Rule number two. This is not a constant d/s relationship - we need to be able to discuss things as equals. Rule number three. No publicly visible marks on me. Ever. Not something I need to explain in my line of work. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." All he wanted to do was get on his knees and suck Mycroft off. _God, why did this affect him like this?_

"On your knees, Greg."

 _Oh thank god._ Greg climbed off the seat and knelt on the floor. _First time in a car. Funny, that. Most people get that out of the way in their teens._ "May I suck your cock, sir?"

Mycroft beamed. _Oh, this was going to work out very nicely indeed. No training, and already he had good instincts. He wasn't assuming anything._ He inched forward on the seat to give Greg better access. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Greg started on his belt, undoing his trousers. He found blue silk boxers ( _what was it with the Holmes brothers and blue silk?)_ , already stained with pre-come. _He wants this as much as I do._ Greg mouthed his hardness through the soft silk before manoeuvring his cock between the slit of the boxers. This was easier said than done. He allowed himself a quick glance before he got to work with his mouth. _Good god. Not lacking in that department._ He wet his lips and relaxed his jaw. It was time to see if he could make Mycroft moan.

Mycroft hadn't intended for this to happen. He'd only wanted to see Greg – no, he'd _needed_ to see him - after last night. When he'd found out about the Baker Street meeting, he'd cleared his calendar (while trying to cause the fewest number of international incidents) and waited patiently at the Yard from about eleven. He'd been surprised to see Greg leave early. He'd wanted to talk, at most. He had not planned this, but he was most definitely not complaining. When Greg's mouth touched him, he shuddered.

It had been a while since Mycroft had last had a lover. He'd wanted someone he could really relate to, not just somebody who could satisfy his voracious appetite. So, he had gone on a diet, of sorts. No lovers. And while he would never admit it, not to anyone, and barely even to himself, Sherlock's drugs habit had not been the entire reason for the surveillance in his flat. Seeing Sherlock, (not being vicious to him, for a change), undid something in him, even though he knew it shouldn't. He watched him, for hours, half naked in that dressing gown, moping, experimenting, and once John had moved in, actually laughing. He knew it wasn't a healthy obsession, nor a particularly acceptable one ( _not that societal standards had bothered him much before_.) He also knew that Sherlock would never let him get anywhere near him. And then the lovely Detective Inspector had gotten himself involved in these _experiments_ with his brother and John, and wasn't that just about the best thing ever? Oh no, wait, Greg on his knees in front of him, eagerly sucking on his cock – _that_ was the best thing ever.

He gazed at Greg's face – his eyes closed, the angle of his jaw making his cheekbones more prominent than usual. He was doing unspeakably delicious things with his tongue. _God, it had been so long since… this._ The hot, wet slickness of it all threatened to send him over the edge. He reached down and grabbed Greg's head, holding it still while he thrust his hips. He knew he was going deep – probably too deep – but Greg didn't try to pull back. He just let him fuck his mouth as hard as he wanted.

Greg knew, when Mycroft's hands found the sides of his head, that he was going to be in for quite a ride. He wouldn't be able to control the depth or the pace of Mycroft's cock in his throat. That feeling of powerlessness, that lack of control, went straight to his cock. _How could he have not known until this weekend that he was so into this?_ Mycroft was suddenly deep in his mouth, thrusting hard. He relaxed into it, and concentrated on keeping a good amount of suction and doing what he could with his tongue. Mycroft fucked his mouth relentlessly, almost brutally. It was glorious. He heard him moaning softly, as if trying not to, and felt Mycroft explode down his throat. Knowing how sensitive he was likely to be after coming that hard, he gently sucked and licked him clean. Mycroft was looking at him with something like amazement in his expression.

"Thank you, Greg." He pulled Greg back in for a kiss, eager to taste himself mingled with the taste of Greg's mouth.

"It was my pleasure."

"I'm glad. But we should see about that, too."

"Actually, as much as would love that right now, I need to talk with you about some things before we get to Baker Street."

"Go on."

"I haven't talked to Sherlock and John about my status in these experiments, yet." _I can't see Mycroft being okay with that, at all._

"What do you want that status to be?"

 _Okay, not what he'd expected._ "I'm not sure. I don't even know if Sherlock will want to continue them after last night." He suddenly realized Mycroft probably didn't know about John's revelation to Sherlock. _Damn._

Mycroft realized he probably wasn't supposed to know, and pretended not to. "Why not?"

"I think some things may have changed between them."

Mycroft internally smiled. No lies, no half-truths, and no needless exposure of sensitive information. He _liked_ Gregory Lestrade. A lot.

"Alright, assuming they continue, do you want to participate in them?"

"Only if that doesn't put this in jeopardy."

"If, and I realize this is a huge _if_ , I were allowed to participate, would you have a problem with that?"

Greg's heart started to beat faster. _Holy fucking hell. He couldn't even imagine._ "Of course not."

"Well then, I think all four of us should be at this little meeting."

Mycroft tidied himself up and redressed. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes. He looked at Greg, then slowly let his gaze drop between Greg's legs. He was still hard. "Plenty of time. Let me help you with that."

Greg made an incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat, and happily obliged.


	13. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lunch meeting at 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Holmescest and some angst.

Greg and Mycroft arrived at Baker Street exactly at noon. Sherlock had been expecting them both. "I knew it, John. I knew he'd show up. That's a lot of bloody nerve after what he did."

John nodded. Sherlock had told John about Greg and Mycroft's "date" the previous evening. "Why Greg, though? Is he jealous of what's going on with the three of us?"

"That's probably part of it, but I think he's had his eye on Greg for a while. He's My's type. I'm guessing last night's footage put him over the edge. Looking back at it, he's always been a bit of a dominant. And I don't know why, but I don't think he's had a lover for quite some time. Seeing Greg on his knees and then getting cropped? If I was looking for a sub, I'd probably be interested." John looked slightly hurt. "I'm not looking for a sub, John."

John, still a bit emotionally vulnerable after the previous evening, brightened up considerably at Sherlock's words. The mood was tense, though. Sherlock was clearly unhappy about Mycroft's appearance, expected or not.

The events of the weekend had prompted some internet research on Sherlock's part. In retrospect, it all made sense – Mycroft's "dates" that were oddly compliant and silent, the way he expected to be obeyed, the little private "clubs" he attended.

"Well, look at it this way; at least we can get him to do something about the surveillance."

Sherlock huffed and muttered something inaudible. It sounded suspiciously obscene, especially for Sherlock.

Mycroft knocked on the interior door. They'd left the car waiting outside. Greg shuffled nervously, waiting for the door to open. Sherlock answered the door and glared at Mycroft. John stood behind him.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

He turned to Greg with a softer look. There was a small round of greetings between the three of them. Mycroft was conspicuously ignored. Sherlock motioned them inside.

The four of them sat around the coffee table, specially tidied for the occasion. Greg and Mycroft sat together on the settee, John sat upright in his armchair, and Sherlock sprawled lazily over the Le Corbusier chair in his purple shirt, the picture of self-confidence.

Sherlock took in Mycroft and Greg's appearances. _Clearly they had consummated their new relationship in the car on the way over. Mycroft always lost some of his 'edge' after he'd had an orgasm._ He'd walked in on him and a lover once at a Christmas party. _The knees of Greg's trousers bore tell-tale carpet fibres and his lips were full, pink, and slightly swollen. He suspected Greg's throat was probably a little raw, as well. Greg had definitely gotten off too, though. He was clearly post-orgasmic (flushed, speech a touch slower than usual) and Mycroft had the incriminating waft of baby-wipes about him. (Like his inevitable stash of sweets, he also kept baby-wipes in his cars for clean-up purposes.) He'd probably given Greg a hand-job afterwards. Afterwards, because he suspected Mycroft wasn't the type to let a sub come first._

"Would you care to explain why you're here, dear brother?" Sherlock's tone was icy.

"Negotiations, Sherlock. I've come to… apologize for the surveillance, although I'm sure you realize I had only your best interests in mind."

"I'm sure you did." No sarcasm there, none whatsoever.

"Greg, am I correct in assuming you plan on becoming Mycroft's new submissive?"

Greg looked understandably nervous. "Yes."

"Do you wish to continue the experiments with me and John?"

"Um, yes." He looked at John. "But only as long as that's okay with both of you."

About two hours earlier, after breakfast (which had gotten cold because they'd gotten distracted by a particularly satisfying round of sex), Sherlock had launched into a nervous monologue. "John, I'm glad you told me - I know it wasn't easy. When you started to tell me, all I could think was that you were going to leave, and that terrified me. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with, but I want you here, John. I _need_ you here." That had been good enough for John. It wasn't a declaration of love, but he hadn't expected one, either. _Hell, he hadn't expected anything. He'd expected to be thrown out on his ear. He could definitely wait for Sherlock on this._ Since there had already been "experiments" that hadn't involved Greg, he'd been fine with Greg continuing to be involved. ( _There'd been two, if anyone was counting – and he had to admit that perhaps he was. Just a little bit. And that didn't even count getting to sleep in his own bed with Sherlock wrapped around him.)_

John nodded, and smiled at Greg. Poor Greg looked like he was about to be sick. "Yes, we already discussed it. That's okay with us."

Sherlock turned to face his brother. "So then. Mycroft. Why _did_ you feel the need to invite yourself along? You can't possibly expect me to believe that you've come to _apologize_."

Mycroft flushed slightly.

 _I didn't think so._ Sherlock continued to glare at Mycroft.

John was fascinated. He'd never seen Mycroft _intimidated_ by Sherlock. He'd never seen Mycroft intimidated by anybody.

Sherlock waited.

Mycroft's thoughts were racing. _This was not going well._ His plan had been to insinuate himself into the experiments as Greg's dom, but he could see now that there was no way Sherlock would accept that. _Why_ did _he want this? Now that he had Greg, at least he would have someone. It had been so lonely_ _lately._ That was why he'd insisted that Greg not be a full-time submissive. He'd done that before. He needed someone he could relax with at the end of the day sometimes. He wanted the occasional _date._ Being a full-time dom was hard work. Being a minor official in the British government was hard work. He knew his limitations. _I know why I'm really here. I miss Sherlock. I want to be his brother again, not his nemesis._ "I want to be a part of your life, Sherlock."

"Really. And having video feeds of the flat isn't _doing it_ for you anymore?" Sherlock left no doubt as to what he meant by "doing it." Once he'd figured out the flat was bugged, it hadn't been much of a leap to figure out _why._ He'd been clean for ages, after all. He knew his brother liked to watch, and it really didn't bother him. But he also knew bringing it up would bother Mycroft. So he did.

There was a very long pause. _Bugger. I really didn't think he knew. Perhaps he wants me to admit it._ "I really do want to be a part of your life again. It's not just… _that_." And he did. He really, really did. But the Holmeses had never been much of a family. Was it so much to ask, for comfort there?

Greg tried not stare. _Jesus. Everyone has a thing for Sherlock. Even his own brother._

John's mind reeled. He hadn't seen that coming.

Neither had Sherlock - not really - though he'd suspected it for years. There had been erotically charged situations between them in the past, but he had _never_ expected Mycroft to admit it. _That's why we're always at each other's throats – it's easier to argue and make sarcastic remarks than it is to admit that we want each other._ Sherlock felt his cock stir at the sudden image of My taking him, hard, pushed up against the wall. _Oh god. My._ He struggled to keep his face impassive. _Dear god, what is John going to think of this? He already thinks it's odd that I know My watches me and don't care. I didn't even tell him it excites me._ He glanced at John, whose skin tone had taken the same hue as Greg's. _A little bit not good. Think._ Why not just refuse? _Because it would be nice to have family I don't despise – someone else who understands._ He thought John might be able to understand him, one day, but it was so _noisy_ in this mind of his. He wasn't sure anyone could really understand _that_ unless they lived it, and he knew Mycroft had lived with it, too. They'd talked about it when they were younger. It seemed to run in the family.

"There will be rules. I will set the rules. If you don't follow them, that's it. It's over." Sherlock didn't know what the rules were going to be yet, but he knew that establishing dominance over Mycroft was imperative. He didn't really expect him to accept - didn't imagine Mycroft would sub for anyone – sexually or otherwise.

"Agreed." Mycroft didn't know what the rules would be, and quite frankly, didn't care. He was willing to do anything to have Sherlock back in his life, in any capacity.

 _Christ, I was wrong._ His heart leapt at the prospect. _It's been so long, My - so long since I had family._ They both stood, and met in a hug, their faces buried in each other's shoulders.

John and Greg looked at each other and read each other's thoughts. _Time to go and make some tea._ John got up and Greg joined him in the kitchen. They kept their voices at a murmur, so the pair wouldn't hear. "Did you know?" "I had no idea. Sherlock never said anything." "You okay with this?" "You know, oddly, I think I am. It kind of makes sense, in a weird sort of way. You?" "Um, yeah. It's weird, sure, but I can kind of relate to having a thing for Sherlock. Yes."

Back in the front room, the brothers were still in an embrace. Sherlock pulled back slightly and rested his forehead on Mycroft's. They were both shaking. "I missed you, My." He leaned up slightly, his mouth open, and kissed him tentatively.

Mycroft flinched at the contact of Sherlock's mouth. _Oh god. Sherlock._ He kissed him back, both of them reluctant to take the kiss any further, neither of them sure if they could handle it.

Greg and John made themselves conspicuously busy in the kitchen, finding mugs and tea and milk and other noisy things that let the pair know they had a few minutes. They both snuck glances, but it didn't matter – Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't have noticed if a large bomb had exploded around them.

Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer, and ran his tongue over Mycroft's lips. He pulled away slightly, his voice barely audible. "Want you, My."

That, quite simply, undid Mycroft. He shuddered from the raw need of it. "Oh god, Sh'lock. I've missed you so much." He pulled Sherlock back in for another kiss, this one harder and more desperate, their tongues exploring each other's mouths, tasting each other. One of Mycroft's hands found Sherlock's arse and pulled him closer. Sherlock's hands were moving all over Mycroft, memorizing him, just in case this all went horribly wrong. Mycroft eventually pulled away slightly, and nervously asked, "The rules. What are the rules?" "Later. Want you. Now." Sherlock grabbed the back of Mycroft's neck went back to kissing him as a displacement activity for some other things he'd rather be doing, but hadn't quite gotten up the nerve for, yet.

Mycroft felt gloriously high. His brain was racing, he could feel the blood surging through his veins, and his tongue was exploring Sherlock's mouth. His mind had been rather unhelpfully providing him flashes of all the erotically charged situations he and Sherlock had shared over the years. The only thing those events had led to was a shameful masturbation session afterwards. But now, Sherlock had actually said it. _Want you, My._ This wasn't his to endure alone. It was actually reciprocated. This wasn't the same as having a lover, he knew that. It was about having someone who understood you, at a molecular level, and accepted you. It was about having someone who knew every little horrid thing about you, and loved you anyway. It was about having family, and neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had felt that in a very long time. Their definition of "family activities" was just somewhat broader than most people's.

Greg and John had gravitated to the furthest corner of the kitchen. The tea had been abandoned as pointless. Greg looked at John, and muttered in a low voice, "I don't think I should be finding this quite so hot." John nodded. The sight of Sherlock and Mycroft together had gone straight to his groin. _This should bother me. Shouldn't this bother me? You know what? I don't give a fuck. This is the first time I've seen them happy together in the same room. If Sherlock needs this, I can certainly fucking deal with it._ He pulled Greg to him and kissed him fiercely. Greg understood. This wasn't about the two of them, this was about Sherlock, and to some extent, Mycroft, and that was just fine.

By this point, Mycroft and Sherlock's tenuous grasp of societal norms had been utterly released back into the wild, and neither of them noticed, nor cared. They were dealing with decades of repressed sexual tension. Their frenzied, passionate kiss was like being at the detonation point of an explosion - there was a palpable shockwave spreading from them. Greg and John clearly felt it, and were taking appropriate measures. Mrs Hudson had no idea what was going on, but felt the sudden need for one of her herbal soothers. Up and down Baker Street, people got unaccountably aroused. Nine months later, there was a statistically higher than average number of births in that part of London. No one knew, of course, except the four of them. No one even cared enough to investigate the oddity, but when you have that much pent-up sexual energy, released in one place, there are bound to be side effects.

Greg started rubbing John's erection through his trousers, then dropped to his knees. _No point in everyone else having all the fun._ John flashed him Evil Grin number 21. "So… enjoying the submissive thing, are you?" "Goes straight to my cock. It's fantastic." "Well, then, be my guest." John let Greg undo his trousers and braced himself against the kitchen counter. He had a good view of Sherlock and Mycroft and a happy submissive on his knees in front of him. _I've had worse days._

Sherlock and Mycroft pulled back, resting on each other's foreheads, breathing heavily. "My…" Sherlock raised two fingers to Mycroft's mouth and touched his lower lip, rubbing it gently. Mycroft reflexively sucked on his fingers, and gazed at him, not knowing what to do. He felt lightheaded. _I can't believe he's letting me do this. I can't believe he's letting me in._

"What do you want, My?" _He had to ask. If he didn't ask, he was just going to take. Take him, right here, in the front room._ No answer. He was still sucking on Sherlock's fingers like he needed them to breathe. "I want to bury myself inside you, My. Will you let me?" _There was no way he'd let him. No way he'd agree to that._ Mycroft sucked in a breath. "Anything."

Sherlock lost his breath. Something deep in his brain, what little of it was still working, reached out to him. _Don't let this ruin things with John._ He glanced into the kitchen; Greg was on his knees in front of John, sucking him off. He looked at John and said, "Are you okay with this?"

John nodded. Greg was doing unspeakably delicious things to his cock, and his language centres weren't functioning particularly well.

Satisfied, Sherlock turned to Mycroft and started removing his suit, as quickly as humanly possible.

 _Holy hell, Sherlock was actually going to do this. I'm actually going to do this._ Mycroft started working on Sherlock's purple shirt. _His nipples are hard. I want to suck on them. Oh dear lord I'm losing my mind._

Sherlock had removed Mycroft's suit coat, waistcoat, and tie and was working on his shirt. He'd contemplated leaving just Mycroft's tie on, but thought perhaps that was a little too kinky for their first time. Both of them were fumbling like teenagers. It didn't help that they'd started kissing again, which meant they couldn't see what they were doing. They eventually managed to rid themselves of their clothes, and the touch of bare flesh brought a loud moan from Mycroft. He winced, then said in a low voice, "Need you, dear brother."

Sherlock pushed Mycroft onto his back on the settee and looked at him for a few long seconds. He figured it was only fair; Mycroft had done his fair share of looking. He wanted to take in his brother's body for a change. Mycroft blushed, clearly not used to the role reversal. _Funny, he looks even better out of a suit._

Mycroft gazed at his brother, watching him memorize his body. _God, he's beautiful._ The stolen moments from the surveillance footage couldn't even come close to this. His brother was standing there, naked and hard, for him. "Sherlock, _please…"_ There was desperation in his voice.

Sherlock climbed on top of him, looking greedily at Mycroft's erection. _I want to make him beg, just a little bit, before I fuck him._ He licked his lips, making sure Mycroft was watching, and took him deeply in his mouth. Mycroft arched his hips at the sudden contact, pushing himself deeper into Sherlock's mouth. "Nnnngggghh. Ohhh." Sherlock started to move his head up and down the shaft, using his tongue to tease him. "Please, Sh'lock, please fuck me." Sherlock tried to think of the last time he'd heard Mycroft use the word "fuck." He couldn't remember it. _Well, perhaps that's good enough, then._ He grabbed the lube from the table and pushed Mycroft's legs apart – one long leg on the back of the settee and the other braced against the coffee table. He slipped a lubed finger against his entrance, and gently pressed in. His hips bucked, and he pushed down until Sherlock was buried to his knuckle. "More." Sherlock slicked up two more fingers. He shoved all three in, and gave them a twist. "Nnngggghh." Mycroft was fucking himself on Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock didn't even have to move. _Where's the fun in that?_ He pulled his fingers out and slicked up his cock. He glanced at John, wondering if he was watching this. (He was, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. _Thank god._ ) "Need you inside me…"

He hooked Mycroft's legs over his shoulders, and bent down over him, lining his cock up against his brother's entrance. He pushed, and felt the give, felt his cock sliding inside his brother. _So tight. Oh god, My._

Mycroft tried to memorize the feel of Sherlock entering him, the tight-hot-aching-glorious sensation of finally being filled by him. Sherlock pushed all the way in, in one long slide. He paused when he was fully inside, kissing Mycroft slowly and giving him a few seconds to adjust.

"Just fuck me, Sherlock. I _want_ it hard." He'd never heard My's voice like this, undone and filled with need and lust and want and expletives. He pulled out almost all the way, and shoved himself back in, setting a fast pace he wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep up. It didn't matter. The sight of his brother beneath him undid Sherlock as completely as Mycroft had been undone. It unleashed some primal need to take him, to claim him as someone who cared for him, as real family, not just one of the people you'd been stuck with genetically. The tight heat of him felt amazing around his cock. He angled himself so he could push a little deeper, his balls slapping up against My's skin. Mycroft cried out as Sherlock hit his prostate. "Holy fucking hell." Sherlock grinned. Mycroft never swore like this. _I must be doing something right._

Back in the kitchen, John had been fucking Greg's face with abandon. The sight of Sherlock pounding into Mycroft sent him over the edge. As his vision went white around the edges, he smiled to himself. _Living with Sherlock has warped my mind, and I love it. I fucking love it._ Greg, satisfied that John had found his release, turned his attention to the front room. He watched with amazement as Sherlock drove himself deep into his brother. Of all the things he'd expected to see there, that was not one of them. He didn't think Mycroft _did_ submissive, but then Sherlock was probably a special case. It was like vulgar but beautiful poetry, watching them. He'd never seen them able to stand each other's presence in the same room. To see them like this was both shocking and lovely at the same time. He'd always felt protective of Sherlock, even before he'd become obsessed with him, but it was eminently clear who was in control here. _It sure as hell wasn't Mycroft._

Sherlock started to feel his balls tighten against his body. It wasn't going to be long. He wanted to make Mycroft come before he did – wanted to see proof that his brother needed him like this. He stretched down and sunk his teeth into his brother's shoulder. Mycroft let out a low, deep moan and started to come, shuddering his release onto his stomach. Sherlock released his shoulder and gave him a few hard strokes. It was all he needed to unleash the tight coil in his belly, and he came, his breath ragged, deep inside his brother. Mycroft groaned again at the hot sensation of it. Sherlock pulled himself off Mycroft, and carefully knelt over him. He wasn't done. He wanted to taste his brother. Meeting Mycroft's gaze, he slowly lapped at the semen on his stomach and cock, cleaning him off. When Sherlock was done, Mycroft pulled him up his chest and kissed him with delicious slowness, savouring the mingled taste of his semen and his brother's mouth like it was a new wine he'd just discovered.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for this – for letting me back in."

"Mmm." Sherlock just sort of moaned, his breathing still erratic and his dark curls wild around his head. His brain had gone again.

John and Greg stood in the kitchen, feeling more than a little awkward. What they'd just witnessed was clearly an emotional reunion of sorts, and it felt (belatedly) like an intrusion on their privacy. They got dressed, and once more attempted to make tea. At least the tea-making noises would bring some sense of reality to the situation, and hopefully that would bring them back from whatever planet they were currently on. It was either that, or sneak off down the stairs, and John wasn't sure where he would go, since, well, he lived here.

About the time the kettle was coming to a boil (again), they seemed to return. The brothers started to get dressed, still with slightly dazed looks on their faces. Mycroft was sporting a lovely red oval mark on his shoulder that would likely turn into a bruise. Secretly, as much as he abhorred being marked, he was quite thrilled about it. It was proof that Sherlock had claimed him as one of his own.

It had not been a short "meeting," and Greg and Mycroft needed to get back to their respective offices. After hastily drunk cups of tea, they left and made their way to the waiting car.

Once they were in the car, Mycroft turned to Greg. He clearly wasn't sure what to say. "What happened, I… I wasn't expecting that. I know it's not… normal. I'm sorry. I'll understand if you want to back out of things."

Greg smiled at him. "I think I'm a little more warped than you give me credit for. It's nice to see you two getting along for a change. I agree it's not normal, but I don't believe that word has ever been used to describe either of you."

"So you're not going to run away screaming?"

"Not over this, no. You're just going to have to try harder."

Mycroft sighed with relief and leaned over to kiss Greg. "Thank you. Thanks for understanding."

"I am going to take you up on that dinner offer though – make you work for this a little bit."

Mycroft broke into a huge grin, and said with great formality, "It would be my utmost pleasure. May I pick you up at seven?"

Back in 221B, John and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, nursing their tea and idly wondering if there were any biscuits left. John's thoughts were on the recent encounter, and apparently he was thinking a little too loudly. Sherlock answered. "No, that was the first time, but I suppose there's always been a bit of an undercurrent there." John stammered something incoherent, clearly trying to apologize for thinking about it. "It's okay, John. Are you upset about it?" Sherlock knew he'd asked beforehand, but he realized that John's feelings about it could have changed rather rapidly. John thought. Sherlock continued. "We've been at each other's throats for so long - competing, hating each other. My family is a mess, John. My is the only one that actually _gets_ me. When I figured out that he'd been watching me, instead of being horrified, I realized it excited me. Then, today, I saw it as a way to relate to him that would heal our emotional relationship. And yes, I know that sounds a bit mental."

John smiled at Sherlock warmly. "No, I think I understand. One thing I _do_ get is fucked up family relationships." He paused, clearly remembering something. "We never did ask him about the surveillance, though."

Sherlock's grin lit up his entire face. "Oh, don't worry John. If he didn't turn it off last night like he said he did, he's going to have a lovely time explaining his little lunch date to his minions this afternoon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the title from the following quote. "Negotiations and love songs are often mistaken for one and the same." – "Train in the Distance", by Paul Simon. I thought it was appropriate.


	14. Thai Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft muses about his past, then he and Greg go out for dinner.

Mycroft sat in his office, trying to focus on his work. He'd told Anthea to hold his calls unless something important came up. She knew that by "important," he meant "nuclear crisis" or "complete economic collapse of a first world country." And so, he sat in his office in relative peace and quiet, his mind trying to process the day's events.

Mycroft Holmes was a brilliant man. There was no question about that. Although few people knew exactly how much power he wielded, that power was his for good reason. The only area his brilliance failed to illuminate was his personal relationships. He was lousy at them, and he always had been. They terrified him. It was partly why so many of his relationships were based solely on BDSM. It was so much easier when he could manage his lover the same way he managed his work. That was why he'd stopped, though. He knew that wasn't healthy, for him or for anyone involved with him.

Of course, the crowning jewel in his history of failed interpersonal relationships was Sherlock. They'd gotten along fine when they were younger, but when he'd left for school, things had fallen apart. Sherlock had felt abandoned and had never forgiven him. And then, there had been the other things.

He and Sherlock shared many traits: brilliant minds, a fondness for sweets, a general dislike of stupid people, and a tendency towards obsessions. There were two reasons Mycroft had ended up running most of the British government. The first was that he was brilliant. The second, and equally important, was that he'd managed to install a very effective internal filter between his brain and his mouth. Sherlock knew this, of course. He knew exactly what he needed to do to make his life easier – he just couldn't care less. He _liked_ being abrasive and annoying people. That made Mycroft smile. He honestly loved that about his brother – loved that he could do that and get away with it. He'd long ago given up that privilege.

The real problem was that despite their vast financial resources, the Holmes family could not buy themselves a break in the genetics department. Depression had run in the family for years, mostly of the chronic "can't get out of bed for days on end" variety that had afflicted Mummy. Father had killed himself, filling his pockets with rocks and walking into the Thames. He and Sherlock, though, seemed to be plagued with the manic depressive variety of the illness. For Mycroft, it had started in his early twenties. The stress of university triggered his first manic episode. He didn't know it at the time, of course. He had no idea why his brain was moving at the speed of light, why he needed almost no sleep, and why he suddenly wanted sex. For a couple of weeks, it was glorious. Nothing could touch him. Then, it started to go sour – the euphoria turned into agitation, and the agitation turned his brain into a hive of angry, buzzing bees. There was so much mental noise. It became hard to focus. Then, without warning, he crashed. It left him irrational, emotional and suicidal.

It was the suicidal tendencies that forced him to seek out help. Despite the horrid social stigma of mental illness, he didn't want to end up in the Thames like his father. He couldn't do that to Sherlock. His money secured him an excellent doctor, and he was quickly started on mood stabilising medication. It was a mixed blessing. It got rid of the horrid lows, but it also got rid of the glorious manic highs. He missed those, but he was a rational man, and stuck with the new medication. The unfortunate side effect was weight gain. He'd always been tall and slim, but the meds, along with his predilection for sweets, made it a constant struggle to stay at his previous size.

He'd gone back home to Sherlock, of course, and told him all about this particularly unfortunate genetic trait. He'd sent him to his doctor, who said that he saw no signs of the illness in him, yet, but that it was likely to show up later in life. Unfortunately, it did show up, when Sherlock was in his teens. That was when everything had really gone to hell. Sherlock, already upset with Mycroft for going away to school, had complete refused his help. It was obvious that he was manic depressive, but possibly far worse off than Mycroft had ever been. Sherlock lived for his manic highs, which allowed his already brilliant mind to move at lightning speed, his deductions astonishing those around him. For him, the depressive lows came in the form of crippling apathy, boredom, and an inability to do anything except lay on the settee and sulk. An addictive personality, common for this illness, had gotten Sherlock involved with drugs - a failed attempt to replicate the highs of his manic phases. Mycroft had gotten him to the doctor again, of course, but Sherlock had refused to take the mood stabilisers. He was as addicted to the mania as he was the drugs. Mycroft got him into detox, of course, but there was nothing he could do, short of having him committed, to ensure that he took the medication. That was, unfortunately, up to Sherlock.

Things had been rotten between them ever since.

Until today.

Sherlock had let him back in, and nothing, not even a complete reversal of the on-going world financial crisis, could have made him happier. He beamed at the mere thought of it. God, how he'd missed him. Mycroft was not foolish enough to think that this would change anything regarding Sherlock's mental state, but he was so _fucking_ happy to have him back in his life.

The sex had been completely unexpected. He'd never thought of it as a way to relate emotionally to Sherlock, but that was what had happened. At most, he'd been hoping to use Greg's status in Sherlock's experiments to insinuate himself closer to Sherlock on a more regular basis. His longing to repair his relationship with Sherlock had taken on a bit of an unhealthy voyeuristic obsession over the years, to be sure. What Sherlock probably didn't realize was that the surveillance also allowed Mycroft to keep an eye on his moods. Those moods, Mycroft noted with satisfaction, had improved significantly since John had moved in.

Mycroft's thoughts settled on Greg. Now, there was a man with a high tolerance for out of the ordinary events. He'd honestly been surprised to find Greg still there after his encounter with Sherlock. He knew what they'd done was pretty "out there" by society's standards. He'd expected him to run screaming, he really had. (Not that he'd planned it or anything, it had all just sort of happened. But still.) All Greg had asked for was another date. Who was he to refuse? Spending time with Greg over the last couple of days had been sublime. He was funny, down to earth, and sexy as hell. The fact that he got off on submission was merely coffee flavoured icing on the proverbial chocolate cake.

He felt like Greg might be able to understand him, as well. They both had stressful jobs. Neither of them seemed to get out much. He knew Greg wasn't used to a moneyed lifestyle. After all, he was only a Detective Inspector – that didn't exactly pay well. But if their previous dinner date had been any indication, a nice meal counted for a lot with him, and he was more than happy to oblige. He texted Greg.

_What sort of food would you like for dinner?_

_MH_

_Do you like Thai?_

_GL_

Well, that was unexpected. He liked unexpected, at least where Greg was involved.

_Sounds good. Pick you up from work or home?_

_MH_

_Work._

_GL_

Mycroft wasn't surprised. They had taken a rather long lunch, after all. He got Anthea to make reservations for 7:30 at Saran Rom. _That_ was the other advantage of his position – instant reservations, anywhere he wanted them. _God, I love that._ He got back to work.

* * *

Greg hadn't been as aware of Mycroft for nearly as long as Mycroft had been aware of him. Then again, he'd been too busy obsessing over Sherlock to really notice much of anything. Which was funny, really, because he'd never in a million years thought that anything would come of _that._ It's all well and good to have someone to obsess over, but you don't expect to actually end up in bed with them. At least, he hadn't.

He had known John was obsessed with Sherlock as well, but he hadn't realized John was actually _in love_ with him. Once he'd realized that, it didn't seem right to stand in John's way. Then, out of the blue, Mycroft had shown up. And then there had been the meeting today. That had been interesting. He was certain he should be morally outraged or something, but he wasn't. It had been beautiful, seeing Sherlock and Mycroft, well, communicating, even if it wasn't in a socially acceptable way. _Plus, it was ridiculously hot. Even if I have no idea why._ Mycroft's apology in the car had been endearing, but he'd meant it when he said he wasn't going anywhere. He wanted to give this a chance and see where it was going. Apparently, tonight, it was going for Thai food.

Mycroft had the car pick him up early, just in case traffic was bad. He didn't want to be late. Greg exited the building to see a black, anonymous car. _Is that even the same car from this morning?_ The driver opened the back door and he saw Mycroft sitting there, looking at him with an odd expression on his face.

"What?"

"You changed."

Greg was wearing a very nice suit instead of the shirt and trousers he'd had on earlier. After the previous dinner date, he didn't want to be under-dressed. Greg looked sheepish. "I ran back to the flat this afternoon." He took in Mycroft's clothes. "You changed too."

"Um, I have an extra suit at the office. I didn't want to go on a date looking like a mess." Mycroft blushed a little.

Greg smiled. It seemed they were both making an effort.

The car sped them through the wet streets of London, the shop lights reflecting festively in the puddles of water. Compared to the usual dreary mist, the fresh air and current lack of rain was a welcome change.

Mycroft offered Greg a drink. _I was right, this is a different car. I know the last one didn't have a minibar. How many cars does he have?_ Mycroft smiled. He was just as good at deduction as his brother. "They're not all my cars. It's a perk of the job."

"I clearly chose the wrong branch of civil service," Greg said, only half joking.

He passed on the drink, wanting to be as clear-headed as possible for dinner. The car stopped at a surprisingly modern building, but when they went inside, the atmosphere was completely different. It was painted in warm cream tones and filled with beautiful teak woodwork. A massive flower arrangement, taller than either of them, occupied the entryway.

"Right this way, sir."

Greg just looked at Mycroft. He hadn't even given his name. He asked in a low voice, "Do you come here a lot?"

Mycroft just turned to him and smiled.

They were led past a beautiful dining area, filled with people. When Greg had mentioned Thai food, he'd originally been thinking of the takeout place on the corner, certainly not _this._ (He'd gone home to change when he realized that they might not share the same ideas about Thai restaurants.)Their host led them up a set of carved wooden stairs to a balcony area that contained a series of smaller private dining rooms. The doors closed behind them, and the noise and hum of the crowd downstairs melted into the background.

"I thought it might be nice to have a little privacy."

Greg just gave a short laugh and shook his head, still smiling. "You really are something else."

Mycroft beamed.

Dinner, to nobody's surprise, was spectacular. Mycroft kept Greg busy talking about his past (not admitting he'd already gleaned certain parts of it from his intelligence files). To Greg's surprise, Mycroft opened up about his past as well. Greg had asked, not expecting him to answer. Mycroft had told him all about his life, his family, and the depressions that had pulled them apart. Greg was stunned. He'd always wondered why Sherlock had gotten into drugs, and suddenly it made a whole lot more sense. Actually, _Sherlock_ made a whole lot more sense. _Fascinating._

With dessert (a lovely coconut flan, which they shared), the conversation got considerably lighter. "You know," said Greg, "next time we get Thai food, we should go to this place near my flat." _Next time. I hope I'm not being too presumptuous. That implies at least a few more dates, since we'd be unlikely to have Thai twice in a row._

"That sounds great, I'd love that. Is it good?" ' _Is it good?' My, you complete idiot. What the hell are you doing?_

"No, actually it's a complete shithole, but we wouldn't have to dress up." Greg grinned, broadly, and Mycroft let out a little sigh of relief. It had been a while since he'd done this dating lark, or actually cared about it. It was a bit nerve-wracking. Greg smiled, with just a hint of an evil grin. "We could always get take-out and have it at the flat, too." Mycroft thought that was an absolutely brilliant idea.

They finished their meals, and sat back in comfortable silence. After a couple of minutes, it became a slightly less comfortable silence. "Um…" Mycroft wasn't usually at a loss for words. He also didn't usually use the phrase "um."

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to take you back to your flat…?" He dragged the sentence out, just a little bit, at the end. It seemed to imply, "or, we could do something else…"

"Was there another alternative in that sentence I could have missed?" Greg asked. _God, that was a bit forward. What am I thinking?_

"We could always go back to mine for a drink." He smiled, hopefully.

"Done." _Christ, I sound like I just won an auction._ "Sorry, yes, that would be great, thanks. I don't get out much. I'm sort of afraid I'm going to screw this up."

Mycroft almost melted with relief. "I know precisely what you mean."

They had a leisurely ride back to Mycroft's "flat." Greg wasn't sure it could be called a flat by any definition of the word. It was the entire top floor of a beautifully restored old building, perched above the bustle of the London streets below. Inside, it was all marble and wood and polished brass. It exuded style in much the same way Mycroft did. Mycroft led them to the sitting room, set at one corner of the building, where plush leather settees beckoned. Greg walked over to one of the windows and peered down at the wet streets below, marvelling at the peace and quiet here in the flat, twelve floors above the noise and chaos that was central London. "This is quite a place."

"Thanks. It's close to work. It serves a purpose."

Greg stared at him. "You're joking, right? I mean, this place is stunning."

Mycroft's look turned slightly wistful. "It's just me. It gets…" He didn't want to say it – didn't want to sound needy and pathetic. _Lonely._ "Quiet. Would you like a drink?" he asked brightly. _Let's get off that subject, right now._

"That would be lovely. Whatever you're having." Greg knew from Mycroft's previous choice in scotch that he'd probably like whatever he was drinking. He was right.

Mycroft poured two glasses of thirty year old Talisker into elegant crystal tumblers. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

They both took a sip. _Oh god, that was nice._

Greg sat on one of the plush leather settees. Mycroft put his drink down and sat next to him, almost, but not quite touching him.

"Thank you for dinner, Greg. I really enjoyed it."

"So did I. Thank _you_." He turned to face Mycroft, who was looking at him. He moved in for a languid kiss. They moved slowly, tasting the lingering scotch.

They eventually pulled apart. Mycroft touched the side of Greg's face and rubbed his hand along Greg's cheek, his fingers coming to rest in Greg's hair. "It's been a really long time since I've done this. A relationship, I mean. I don't want to mess things up." He paused. "I really like you."

"Yeah, me too."

They just sat there and kissed for a while, taking their time. It was relaxing – something they both needed after their hectic and eventful day.

They sipped their scotch and talked about what they had in common. They both read a lot. While Mycroft generally gravitated towards historical nonfiction, they discovered a rather surprising mutual love of poetry. Greg loved football, Mycroft had only the vaguest notions of how the game was played. Greg's taste in alcohol usually ran towards beer, Mycroft's to fine scotch, but Greg was more than willing to concede that one. They both loved the south coast of Britain, but rarely got down there to visit. They both enjoyed chess. Mycroft wasn't much for the telly, but Greg was sure he could get him hooked on Doctor Who if he tried. They both loved food and cooking.

It was nice. Easy, companionable, and date-like, and it was getting late.

Greg could see Mycroft tense up. "Would… would you like to stay? I could have the car take you back to your flat before work tomorrow."

Greg smiled. "I'd love to."

Mycroft sighed with relief and laughed a little. "I should have done this more when I was younger. I'm too old to start learning how to date now."

"I think you're doing fine."

Mycroft led them through the massive flat to his bedroom. Greg wasn't sure how many bedrooms there were, but he was fairly certain there were quite a few. The bedroom was on the other corner of the building, with huge windows looking south towards the Thames. Mycroft stepped into a walk-in closet and came out with a dressing gown for Greg. "I'm not sure if any of my pyjamas will fit you."

"Don't worry, I sleep in the nude."

Mycroft turned five shades of red, and grinned. Greg pulled him close and started kissing him, much less languidly than before.

Mycroft flipped back the duvet on the huge bed, and pushed Greg backwards onto it. Greg giggled, despite himself. "Mycroft Holmes." He said it with mock indignation.

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft giggled as well, and they went back to kissing and undressing.

By the time all their clothes were off, they were both ready for more than kissing. Mycroft got all shy again. "Um…"

Greg grinned like an idiot. "I'd love you inside me, thank you." Just in case the point was lost on Mycroft, he grabbed his arse and ground against him.

Mycroft had to assure himself that this was, actually, happening. Greg, with that gorgeous body of his, was spread out beneath him. Mycroft couldn't resist – he grabbed Greg's hands and pushed them above his head. Greg let out a delicious moan, and Mycroft could actually feel Greg's cock get harder. He rubbed against him, slowly, teasing him. He nipped at his ear and made his way down towards Greg's neck. He was careful not to leave any visible marks. He stretched down towards his chest, still holding Greg's hands above his head, and started teasing Greg's right nipple with his tongue. Greg convulsed, almost knocking Mycroft off him. Apparently, Greg had very sensitive nipples. _That could certainly prove to be fun later._ Mycroft had no intention of doing any sort of dominance or submission this time (well, except for holding down his hands - that was just hot), but he was filing away information for later.

Greg was breathing hard, trying to rub his raging erection against Mycroft for some sort of relief. Mycroft was a lot stronger than he looked. Being held down by him was indescribably sexy, and it was doing ridiculous things to his body.

"Please?"

Mycroft beamed at him, and relented. He grabbed the lube from the bedside table, and slicked up his long slender fingers. Greg braced his bent legs against the bed and tilted up to give him room. Mycroft teased his entrance with one of his fingers, and slowly slid it inside. Greg moaned. "Oh, yeah…" Not content with that, Mycroft searched around in the silky smoothness until he found his prostate. Greg jolted. "Nnnggghh." "More?" "God, yes." Mycroft added another finger and started thrusting slowly. Greg greedily met his thrusts, needing more. A third long finger, a few twists, and just a little teasing of his prostate, and Greg was so ready he could barely stand it. "Mycroft, please…"

Mycroft was more than ready himself. He slicked up his cock and pushed Greg's legs up closer to his chest. He lined himself up and felt that wonderful _give_ as he slid deep inside him. Greg made that noise again and shuddered. Mycroft, while inexperienced with relationships, was not inexperienced with sex. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thrust against Greg slowly at first, building up the pace as he saw Greg needing more. Soon, he was pushing into him, hard and fast, and Greg was meeting him there. Greg was now moaning almost constantly, occasionally lapsing into English. "More… nngghhhh… god… harder… nnnggghhhh… yessss…" Mycroft reached down and ever so lightly touched his cock – his touch so light he wondered if Greg would even notice. Greg noticed. He shuddered, and came fiercely all over Mycroft's hand. Mycroft gazed at Greg's face as he pushed towards his own release, not far off now. Greg looked back at Mycroft with heavily lidded eyes, and that did it. He found his own release deep inside Greg, shuddering as it was pulled from him.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, you're good at that." Greg's speech was almost slurred.

"As are you, Greg. As are you."

After a few minutes, Mycroft got up and got them some towels. Once they'd cleaned up, he got back into the bed and propped himself up next to Greg. "You still okay with staying?" "God, yes." Mycroft smiled, and snuggled up next to Greg, wrapping himself around him. He was warm, and it felt good, being with someone like this. They were both exhausted. As Greg drifted off to sleep, a thought fluttered through his mind. _Mycroft Holmes, I never would have pegged you for a cuddler._ Mycroft lay awake for a while, despite his exhaustion, simply to enjoy this time alone with Greg.


	15. Justifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some thoughts on the new situation.

They'd been sleeping in the same bed for five nights now, not that Sherlock (or John) was counting. Had anyone asked, John would have given the expected reasons why he was happy about this development: _Me. Sherlock. Same bed. 'Nuff said._

Sherlock, if asked, would have listed many more reasons. No, they weren't reasons, they were justifications. John was warm. John was infinitely preferable to his hot water bottle, and did not get cold at three in the morning (unless Sherlock had stolen the duvet away to his side of the bed). He slept better with someone else in the same bed. Listening to John breathe helped him fall asleep. He had fewer nightmares. John smelled nice. _Wait, where did that last one come from?_ They could now use his bed as an improvised bookcase for the stacks of journals that inevitably piled up. They only had one set of sheets to wash. _Although, it seemed, those sheets needed washing far more frequently than before._ Their sexual experiments were more frequent. _Okay, very frequent, bordering on unsustainable._ His moods had been much better. He was certainly less bored. Sherlock wasn't sure if these last two were related to sharing a bed and having sex, but the timing certainly matched up.

He knew, in general, that people didn't sleep with their flatmates, even _if_ the heating was on the blink. _And, he suspected, they probably didn't have almost constant sex with them, even if that made them care less about the heating._

His justifications for bed cohabitation, some of which were admittedly shaky, seemed to indicate he _had feelings_ for John. _Why did John smell good? And more to the point, why was this question one he suddenly felt the need to answer?_ He wasn't sure what to make of it all. The only other person he'd ever cared for was Mycroft, and that could certainly be a love/hate relationship, at best. However, Mycroft was family, and that didn't count.

He'd been blind to John's feelings for him, precisely because he'd never even considered it a possibility. He was Sherlock Holmes. People did not _feel affection_ for him, and he liked it that way. People were stupid, and he could insult them and feel superior. It made everything so much easier. But now John, Bringer of Milk, Thrower-Away of Fridge Experiments, and oh yes, Shooter of His Would-Be Killer, had forced him to rethink that. John had declared his affections for him. _Hell, he told me he loves me._

As much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he felt more positive emotions about John than he did towards Greg, or anyone else he'd ever slept with, which further reinforced his conclusion that perhaps something was going on.

And so, here they were, lying in bed on a frosty morning, warm together under the duvet. Sherlock nudged a little closer to John.

"Mmmff. Morning."

"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?"

"Mmm. You?"

"Until about an hour ago, yes."

"What's wrong?" John was suddenly awake, concerned as to what was bothering Sherlock. He turned over so he was facing him. Sherlock's hair looked like it was trying to escape from his head and was off in all directions. John couldn't resist a grin and kissed him on the lips. "Sorry. Had to be done. What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked nervous, and said nothing.

"Are you sick?"

"No, John. I'm… I'm not sure what's going on. It would seem I'm not as objective about things as I thought."

The tiniest, faintest flutter of hope formed in John's chest, and his heart started to beat more quickly. _If this was bad, we wouldn't be having this conversation in bed, would we? Would we?_ "In what way?"

He was going to tell John about the "John smells nice" bed-sharing justification, but decided that would just be confusing and off-topic. He couldn't stand it anymore and blurted it out. "I think I have feelings for you as well."

One heartbeat passed. The faint flutter of hope in John's chest leaped up and grabbed his throat, rendering him unable to speak or breathe. He did what any dumbstruck, love-struck fool would do. He hugged Sherlock as tightly as possible and wouldn't let go.

Two heartbeats passed. John found his voice and started murmuring reassuring things in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock was shaking. He seemed terrified. Of what, John wasn't sure. After all, _his_ feelings on the matter were clear.

He pulled back a little so he could look at Sherlock again. "So what's wrong? How is this not good?"

"It… it is good. It's just… unfamiliar. I'm not used to caring about anyone. It's a little disturbing. I don't want anything to happen to you, John. You make me feel saner somehow, more grounded. I think I'm starting to need you on an emotional level as well as a physical one. Possibly a cellular level as well. And these experiments…"

 _Uh oh._

"I don't want them to be just _experiments_. I mean, we can experiment, but I want this to be _us_ , not some data gathering exercise. I want to be with you, John, as part of a… relationship."

John did what any sane person would do. He grabbed Sherlock and started snogging the hell out of him.

Sherlock came up for air. "So you're okay…"

John cut him off. "Of course I'm okay with that, you bloody idiot. How could I not be?" and went back to kissing him senseless.


	16. Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discuss semantics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild bondage and slashy sex.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. John had made them a full English breakfast to celebrate their newly declared relationship. He'd forgotten just how disgusting and greasy a full English breakfast could be. Sherlock had actually eaten the whole thing, which was proof of undying love as far as John was concerned.

John started in on semantics. "So, this makes us, what? Boyfriends?"

"Hm. Maybe."

"Lovers?"

"No, that's not specific enough."

"Sweethearts."

Sherlock just gave him that _look_ with the eyebrows. "Boyfriends. I can do that. In public, anyway. In private, you can call me anything you damn well please." He cocked an eyebrow and shot John an evil grin.

"My marble-skinned Adonis?" Sherlock blushed. "I think we need to celebrate our new _status_ with some ridiculously hot sex. Kinky or vanilla?"

"Hm. How about kinky?"

"Okay, let's see. Bondage? Sex in the park? Spanking? We could invite Mrs Hudson to watch. That would be pretty kinky. We could surprise Greg at work and announce our new relationship to everyone at the Yard by having sex on his desk. Anderson probably wouldn't say anything for a week. Or we could just fuck each other's brains out on the settee. If we do it enough times in a row, I think that counts as kinky."

"Actually…" Sherlock had a thoughtful look on his face.

John, for one horrible moment, thought he was going to take him up on the 'Sex in Lestrade's Office' idea.

"Well, the thing is, the other day I woke up with my arm underneath you. I didn't want to wake you up, so I left it there. Not being able to move? It was sort of arousing. Will you tie me up, John?"

"Of course, love." He could call him that, now. ( _Sherlock hadn't flinched at the endearment_.) "But how? Do you want me to pin your arms down while I ravish you? Tie you to the bed with your scarf? Lock those gorgeous creamy wrists of yours into some black leather cuffs? Lace you into a corset?" That last one got another eyebrow raise. "There's more than one way to do bondage."

"Let's start with the scarf, shall we?"

John didn't even bother answering; he just caught Sherlock's mouth in a passionate kiss and walked him backwards up the stairs to the bedroom. _For future reference, the shorter person goes backwards up the stairs while kissing. That had nearly ended badly._ John playfully pushed Sherlock to the bed, still in his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. He grabbed hold of the dressing gown tie and pulled it from the loops. "How about we use this, instead? I'd hate to stretch out that lovely scarf of yours."

"Mmm." Sherlock had one of those greedy looks on his face. "Anything."

John started to undress him, taking off his dressing gown and planting kisses all over his chest. He flicked his tongue over Sherlock's nipples.

"I thought you were going to tie me up."

"Give me time."

He worked his tongue down Sherlock's chest to his bellybutton, following it with barely touching fingertips. He worked his fingertips just under the waistband of the pyjamas and gave a long, slow stroke along his stomach, carefully avoiding his hardening cock. Sherlock sucked in a breath, too aroused to find it ticklish. John reached his hand down further, and stroked the inside of Sherlock's thigh. He used his fingernails and gently scratched the lightest of lines against his skin, coming back up to his stomach.

Sherlock moaned at the sensation. "John, please…"

"Please what, my love?"

"Please, tie me up."

 _Really, how could he resist that?_ He pulled the pyjama bottoms off in one swift move, Sherlock's already-hard cock bouncing on his stomach. He could see the faint red lines he'd just made on Sherlock's marble skin. _I want to make more. Oh god._ "Fuck, Sherlock, you're breath-taking." He grabbed his arm and pulled him up so he could see the marks. "See how beautiful they look against your skin?" Sherlock sucked in his breath as he saw them. "Oh, John. Do it again, please."

John kissed him and pulled his arms above his head. Sherlock made a small, desperate noise. "Stay like that." John fumbled around in the random piles of washing on the floor and grabbed one of his clean socks. He looked at Sherlock, sitting on the bed with his hands in the air, crossed at the wrists. _Does he realize how stunning he is?_ He wrapped the sock loosely around Sherlock's wrists so he could bind the silk dressing gown tie tightly. He didn't want it cutting into his wrists. He wanted any marks he made to be deliberate. He secured Sherlock's wrists with the tie, and lowered him back on the bed. He tied the end of the tie to the headboard, not giving Sherlock much room to move. He knelt over his legs, trapping the lower half of him.

Sherlock loved the feeling of his naked body stretched out taut like a buffet for John. _He loved submitting to this man. He loved this man. Dear god, he did._ "Mark me, love."

John melted. _That's the first time… Oh god. This. This was why he'd made it back from Afghanistan. This was why life was worth living._ He started just below Sherlock's ear, and drew his fingernail, slightly harder this time, across his neck, and down over his chest. It left a single red line in its wake. He moved along his stomach, and stopped in the curly nest of hairs next to his hard cock. Sherlock let out an unearthly moan. John couldn't take it any longer, and wrapped his mouth around Sherlock's aching cock like he hadn't eaten in weeks. Sherlock's whole body bucked beneath him, not so subtly reminding him that his arms were securely fastened to the bed. He let out an even louder moan. John sucked eagerly, moving his hands to Sherlock's chest. He pulled down slowly as he sucked, raking the skin with his fingernails. He glanced up to see eight long red stripes across his skin. That sight, combined with the sounds Sherlock was making beneath him, was about all he could take.

He grabbed the lube and slicked up Sherlock's already wet cock. Positioning himself above him, he grabbed Sherlock and lowered himself down onto him. _Oh, so tight. Fuck, that's amazing._ Sherlock was thinking much the same thing. John, kneeling over Sherlock with his cock deep up his arse, started fucking him. Sherlock was trying to rise up to meet him, but John leaned back and trapped his legs with his hands, using them for more leverage.

"Nnnnggghhhh." John looked down at the writhing body beneath him, stretched tight. Sherlock's mouth was open and wet, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed. He was panting. John was getting the ride of his life. They both were.

"So close, John…" John released Sherlock's legs so he could rise up to meet his down-strokes. _Nnnggghhhh. So deep._ "Come for me, love. Come for me."

Sherlock thrust into John as deeply as he could and came with a shuddering gasp. John, not far off, used his hand to bring his own release, all over the red marks on Sherlock's chest. They were motionless for a few seconds, and then John slowly disengaged and flopped down on the bed beside his… boyfriend. He gently undid Sherlock's hands and massaged his wrists. Sherlock rolled over and kissed him. "I think we should do that again."

John sounded incredulous. "Now?"

Sherlock giggled, high on dopamine. "No silly. Later."

"So, you liked being tied up, then?"

"Oh, yes."

"Like I said, that's not the only way we can do it…"


	17. Chinese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft have dinner, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: d/s, bondage, and of course, slashy sex.

Gregory Lestrade needed a cigarette or a really good, hard fuck.

It had been one of those weeks. It had been three days since his dinner date with Mycroft. They'd both been too busy to meet up since then, although they'd exchanged texts and emails. His brain was no help. It had been providing him with mental flashes of their evening at inappropriate times. At murder scenes, with grieving family members: "I'm so sorry for your loss. _God, Mycroft, deeper, yes…"_ During boring meetings, while he was making presentations: "So, the profile fits a certain type of killer... _Mycroft holding his hands above his head while…"_ He realized he'd stopped talking mid-sentence and people were staring. Thank god they couldn't hear what he was thinking. "Sorry, right. So, this type of killer is very likely to repeat the crime." It really had been one of those weeks.

The stacks of paperwork on his desk were a testament to his lack of focus - hence, the cigarette or the fuck. He could really use both, just on principle. He dug around in his desk for the nicotine patches, pasted another one on his arm, and picked up his cell. He idly wondered if texting Mycroft again would come over as needy and pathetic, and decided he didn't care.

 _I'd love to see you. Any chance?_

 _GL_

 _I have to work late, but we could have a Chinese at my flat if you want. Pick you up 7:30? I can send a car._

 _MH_

 _Sounds great. Dinner is optional, but Chicken Fried Rice for me if you're going to have some. I'll be at work._

 _GL_

The inherent insecurity of data on the cellular network prevented him from saying anything _inappropriate._

 _Won't be able to meet you in the car, I'm afraid, but will see you at the flat. I know what I want to eat._

 _MH_

Greg turned five shades of red, tried to breathe through his arousal, and got back to work.

The car arrived promptly. The driver got out and opened the back door. "Good evening, sir."

"Thank you. It's Greg, by the way."

"James, sir."

"Nice to meet you. Thanks for the lift." _Had he been the driver on the way to Baker Street? If he had been, he was the picture of discretion. I suppose you have to be with a job like that._

"Of course, sir."

This was weird enough when Mycroft showed up in a mysterious black car. It was even stranger when they showed up empty. He settled back into the plush black leather and let the tension start to ease out of him. He found a white paper bag of Jelly Babies on the console. _Just like I used to get from the sweet shop when I was a kid. God knows where he finds these._ He helped himself to a couple, loving the slight resistance the chalky outer coating offered as he bit into them. _Tom Baker was onto something. Perhaps this is why people value Mycroft for his negotiation skills. I can just see him meeting with heads of state, a nuclear crisis imminent. "Would you like a jelly baby?"_ Actually, he couldn't see that at all, which made it even funnier.

They got to Mycroft's flat. "Thanks, James." "You're most welcome, sir."

Greg rang the bell for Mycroft's flat, and the door unlocked. A few seconds later, an unmarked lift opened, and Mycroft stepped out, beaming.

"Hello, Greg. It's been too long."

"Indeed." They stepped into the lift. There were only two buttons – one for the main floor and one for Mycroft's suite. "You get your own lift?"

"It's the only way I could ensure my privacy. I also have it checked frequently for monitoring devices."

Of course he did. _In that case…_ He pushed Mycroft playfully against the wall and started kissing him.

Mycroft grabbed Greg's wrists from his shoulders, spun him around so Greg was against the wall, and pinned them above his head. Then he upped the intensity of the kiss by a couple notches.

 _Oh, fuck._ Greg let out a small gasp and felt his knees go weak. The lift dinged. Mycroft dropped his wrists and grinned. Greg was still having trouble breathing, and his knees weren't working. Mycroft grabbed his hand and led him out of the lift into the marble foyer.

"Dinner?"

"Um, yeah, sure." Greg stammered, not really caring if he ever saw food again.

"Greg, do you just want a nice relaxing evening, or are you up for something more … adventurous?"

"Anything, sir."

Mycroft's cock twitched. _Oh god yes. Gregory Lestrade was a find, alright._ "Follow me." He led Greg to a large, formal dining room set incongruously with priceless china and takeout Chinese boxes. He motioned towards a chair, and Greg sat down. "Please wait here, I'll be back momentarily."

Greg wasn't sure what to expect, so he just waited, soaking in the details of this room he'd never seen before. It was very formal – the sort of room you expected state dinners to be conducted in. Well, small state dinners, at least. It exuded the same air of plush opulence as the rest of the flat. A sideboard held a lovely flower arrangement and a few small framed pictures. One of them was Sherlock. He assumed the others were Mycroft's parents.

Mycroft came back holding a small bag. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"A beer would be lovely, thanks."

Mycroft disappeared again and returned with a beer. Greg was dying to know what was in the bag.

"You know about safe-words, right Greg? You say 'stop,' we stop. No questions asked."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." _Oh, he'd been looking forward to this – a nice quiet dinner with Greg. A nice quiet dinner, with Greg in cuffs was going to be even more delicious._ He stood behind Greg.

Greg knew without asking that he shouldn't turn around. As Sherlock was so fond of saying, "the game is on."

"Put your arms together behind you."

Greg felt his left wrist being wrapped in, _what?_ _Wool fleece?_ He heard a buckle being closed as it tightened around his wrist. _Ah, leather cuffs, fleece lined. Nice._ His right wrist received the same treatment, and then the two cuffs were connected with a double ended snap hook. It gave him a couple inches of play, while still pulling his shoulders back with a pleasing tug.

Mycroft turned Greg's chair so it was at right angles to the table and sat in the one next to it. "So then. Dinner?"

"If you'd like, sir."

"I'd like that very much." He picked up a silver fork – a _real_ silver fork, Greg suspected, the reason they call it silverware – and took a scoop of the chicken fried rice. He slowly brought the fork to his mouth and ate it, savouring both the food and the greedy look Greg was giving him. "Oh, how rude of me. Would you like some, Greg?" The greedy look had nothing to do with the food, but they both knew that.

"Yes, sir."

He reloaded the fork, and slowly brought it to Greg's lips. Greg licked his lips and opened them. Apparently Mycroft had been taking lessons in being a Sensuous Bastard from John Watson. His mouth closed around the food, and he had to concentrate to remember to chew and swallow it. _Why was this so erotic? Bloody hell._ He was still fully clothed, and already his trousers were getting tight.

"Can't have you getting hungry later, can we?"

"No, sir." _Oh god, please let there be a later. Anything, I don't care what._

With each forkful of fried rice, all he could think of was Mycroft's cock in his mouth, and he knew he'd never be able to eat fried rice again without blushing.

"Your drink?"

"Thank you, sir."

"Blink when you want me to stop tipping it." He held it to Greg's lips and tipped it slowly. Greg took a gulp and blinked. Mycroft placed it back on the table.

"Did you get enough to eat?"

Greg couldn't help but smile. "Enough rice, sir."

 _I do love a cheeky submissive._ He got up and helped Greg to his feet, a hand steadying his bound elbow.

He led Greg down the long hallway towards the bedroom, but stopped before they reached it. He opened a door to the left; one that Greg had assumed was an extra bedroom. He flicked on the lights. The room was dimly lit, but it was clear what it was.

"Good lord," Greg muttered under his breath, forgetting his role. He'd never seen anything like it, not in real life anyway.

"This," announced Mycroft, "is the Playroom."

It was filled with a variety of bondage equipment, pieces of what could only be termed "bondage furniture", an assortment of riding crops and canes on the wall, and numerous other things Greg couldn't even identify. His knees got weak again.

Mycroft turned Greg to face him and placed a hand on his cheek, reassuring him. "I'm not going to push you any further than you want, okay? You're in control of this. This is something we work into slowly."

Greg turned his head and placed a kiss on Mycroft's palm in assent. He heard Mycroft undoing the clasp between the cuffs.

"Remove your clothes and place them on the floor. When you're finished, kneel on the floor underneath that chain." There was a chain hanging from the ceiling. Greg did as he was told, realizing the floor was padded with some sort of cushy rubber covering.

Mycroft opened a large wooden wardrobe and selected matching ankle cuffs, a collar, and a spreader bar. _Yes, that would work nicely._ Greg was kneeling underneath the chain, his arms at his sides and his clothes folded neatly on the floor next to him. "Arms above your head." Mycroft used the snap hook to secure the cuffs, and attached the cuffs to the chain with a carabiner. He left some slack in the chain for what he was about to do next. He fastened the cuffs to Greg's ankles, and pushed his legs wide, fastening the spreader bar between the ankle cuffs. This forced Greg closer to the ground and took out some of the slack in the chain. "Is that okay?" "Yes, sir."

Greg blushed. He hadn't seen what Mycroft had gotten from the cabinet. He didn't even know such a thing existed. _The exposure of it, the sheer submission of it. Christ, this was hot._ He was already completely hard, and they hadn't even started yet.

Mycroft stood back and admired his handiwork. Greg, naked, on his knees, his arms secured to the chain above him, his legs spread apart widely behind him. He admired Greg's well-toned arse for a while, because he could. _Sometimes, it's really good to be me._ He smiled to himself. Greg was already hard. _Sorry, Greg, we have a few things to attend to first._ He picked up one last item he'd retrieved from the cabinet. It was a simple black leather collar. Mycroft walked in front of Greg and held the collar out to him. "I'd like to collar you, Greg. Just for this evening, obviously – nothing permanent. Is that okay?" "Yes, sir."

Greg gulped, involuntarily. There was something so sexual about a collar – the control it implied – that went straight to his groin. Mycroft leaned in close to fasten it around his neck. This was the closest Mycroft had been to him since dinner. He could feel the heat coming off him, even though he was still fully dressed. He could smell him. He smelled like leather and raw need. His whole body ached with the desire to move closer to Mycroft, but he knew better.

Mycroft fastened the collar and beamed at him. His voice was low. "Oh, yes... Yes." He gave him a greedy look that made Greg wonder if Mycroft had eaten in weeks.

Mycroft undressed in front of Greg with no trace of shame.

 _He didn't say anything about not looking._ Greg drank in the view, unconsciously chewing on his lower lip.

He wasn't quick about it. He was wearing a three piece suit. _These things take forever to remove. I might as well take advantage of that fact and torture the poor boy a bit._

Greg's mouth went dry as Mycroft finally removed his shirt and started on his trousers. He left his boxers on. They were all that remained on his body.

"Greg, you've been so patient. Would you like to remove these for me?" Mycroft stepped closer to Greg.

Greg nearly died. _Nggghh. That is the stupidest fucking question I have ever heard in my life._ "Yes, sir. Very much." He leaned forward, using the chain for balance, and pressed his face against Mycroft's stomach, using his teeth to grasp the waistband of the boxers. _God, his skin is so warm and soft._ He breathed in the scent of him, revelling in it. Mycroft's hard length was right below the boxers, straining to get out. Greg carefully pulled the waistband away from his stomach and tried to pull the boxers down over his erection.

It didn't work. There wasn't enough play in the chain. Mycroft was smiling knowingly above him, but Greg was too focused on his task to notice. He'd known this would happen, of course. He wanted to see how Greg handled it. Greg persisted, managing to move them a fraction lower, exposing the head of Mycroft's cock.

 _Fuck._ All Greg could think about was getting that in his mouth, but that wasn't what he'd been told to do. He realized, suddenly, that he could use his chin to get the boxers lower than his teeth could, now that he had a gap to work with. He carefully put his chin in the space next to Mycroft's cock, and slowly moved his head lower. It worked. The boxers moved down another couple inches, but at the same time, Mycroft's erection rubbed against his cheek. _Nnggghh._ Greg had to close his eyes. He was seriously in danger of forgetting how to breathe. He didn't move. He just wanted to feel his cock there, hot on his face. _Fuck._ He tried to move the boxers lower, but there wasn't enough give in the chain. He knew he wasn't supposed to do this, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He started running his tongue along Mycroft's trapped erection, trying to get himself in a position so he could get his mouth over it.

Mycroft let him struggle at it for a while. He was doing remarkably well with such a short length of chain. Making sure Greg's mouth wasn't around his cock, he pulled a quick-release mechanism further up the chain. It gave Greg a few more links to work with.

Greg felt the sudden release of the chain and his body fell a couple inches, stopping with a jerk. _More room._ He quickly used it to his advantage and pulled the boxers off with his teeth, letting them slide to the floor.

 _He didn't say you could suck him off. Ask first._ "May I continue, sir?"

"By all means, do."

Greg's mouth latched onto him and started taking him as deeply as he could, moving his head up and down over him. This was surprisingly awkward with his hands above his head, but Greg was nothing if not persistent. Mycroft stepped a little closer, which made things easier, but also forced him more deeply into Greg's throat. Greg moaned.

Mycroft decided to help out by stabilising things. He grabbed the back of Greg's head ( _another moan from Greg_ ). This meant Greg wasn't trying to hold himself up and suck him off at the same time, which meant Mycroft could fuck his mouth with abandon. _Oh, he likes that._

Greg relaxed his neck against the warm pressure of Mycroft's hand, glad for the break. It allowed him to relax his jaw, which he sort of suspected was the point. As Mycroft's thick cock slid deep into this throat, he was able to better use his tongue. For the first time since they'd started, _Mycroft_ moaned, and started fucking his face.

 _Things aren't going to last long if he keeps this up. Not long at all._ Mycroft reluctantly pulled out of Greg's mouth. Greg whimpered. Mycroft unhooked the carabiner holding Greg's arms to the chain, and gently stabilised him in a kneeling position, his wrists cuffed in front of him. Greg's breath was ragged, and his lips were glistening and full. _It's such a shame to waste that mouth. It's such a shame to waste a good spreader bar, though._ He grinned to himself again. He took Greg's wrists in his hands and lowered him to the floor, so his forearms were supporting him. His wrists were still cuffed, but the position was solid – he was basically on his arms and knees, the spreader bar keeping his ankles wide and his arse invitingly appealing. "You okay?"

"Yes… sir." It was getting difficult to talk. He was on his hands and knees with his arse in the air, and he sincerely hoped Mycroft Holmes was getting ready to fuck him. _This isn't okay, this is fucking brilliant._

Mycroft took a second to admire the view. The spreader bar at Greg's ankles was doing a lovely job of displaying his arse. Mycroft moved behind him and teased him a little, rubbing his cock along the cleft of Greg's arse. He bent over him, rubbing his back and shoulders as he pressed up against him. Greg just moaned. "Tell me what you want Greg."

"Need… you." Mycroft smiled, realising Greg was too far gone to talk much. That was just fine. He slicked up his fingers with lube and started to prepare Greg. When he started scissoring his fingers, he caught Greg's prostate, and Greg made a noise that was almost feral. _Greg, bloody hell, I need you. It feels like I've been hard for hours._ He couldn't hold himself back any longer. He lubed up his cock and lined himself up against Greg's arse. His hands on Greg's hips, he slowly pushed his way inside. They both moaned. Balls-deep inside Greg, he started to move.

Greg found a good position as Mycroft drove into him. _Oh fuck yeah, right there._ His cock had been hard the whole time, and if Mycroft kept that up, he wasn't going to last much longer. He shoved himself back to meet Mycroft's thrusts, their sweat-slick bodies slapping obscenely against each other. He could feel himself getting close, but knew he should ask permission. His brain wasn't working. All he could manage was "Can… I?"

"Yes, Greg. Come for me."

That was all Greg needed. He came hard, Mycroft still pounding into him, most of it ending up on his chest.

Mycroft wasn't far behind, the tight coil in his belly releasing all at once. He grabbed hold of Greg and held him tightly as he came deep inside him.

The room was silent except for the sound of ragged breathing. Mycroft fought off the instinctual tiredness and started undoing Greg's cuffs, pulling Greg to him and wrapping himself around him, rubbing his stiff limbs and kissing his neck. "You okay?"

"Mmmm."

Mycroft started to remove the collar.

"No, leave it on a bit longer. I like it."

 _I do love a pushy sub._ He smiled. "I thought we could have a shower and warm up a bit. You can have it on later if you'd like."

"Mmm. Okay."

He wrapped them each up in a blanket, and they made their way to the shower in Mycroft's massive suite. There was plenty of room for both of them. The steaming hot water worked its way into Greg's aching muscles, but his brain was still elsewhere.

"How are you, Greg?"

"I'm good, My. I'm sorry, I mean Mycroft."

Mycroft leaned over and kissed him. "'My' is just fine."

They stayed in the shower for ages, letting the warmth soak into them like a long bath. Mycroft left the shower first, and returned with fluffy towels, dressing gowns, and a new pair of pyjamas in Greg's size. "I'd like to dry you, if that's okay, Greg."

Greg grinned hugely, fairly sure there was no way Mycroft could have known about Sherlock and John and the towel thing at his flat.

"What?" Mycroft honestly had no idea why Greg found this amusing.

"I'd love that, thanks. And I'll tell you later."

Greg idly wondered if there was some sort Unwritten Code for Sensuous Bastards, or if Mycroft and John had studied it formally somewhere.

Mycroft took his time drying Greg, and Greg enjoyed every glorious second of it, beaming the entire time.

They put on pyjamas and dressing gowns and made their way to the kitchen. They reheated the rest of the Chinese food and went into the front room, with its glorious view of the London skyline. Then they curled up together on the settee and ate dinner. It wasn't very good, but they didn't care.


	18. An Unexpected Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A public display of affection leads to unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for spanking, mild Holmescest (Mycroft spanks Sherlock, kissing), d/s, and slashy sex with all four of them present. Main pairing is Mycroft/John.**

Sherlock's reconciliation with Mycroft had resulted in an unexpected benefit. Sherlock's "allowance" had been restored. It was not an insignificant sum, and it allowed John and Sherlock much greater financial flexibility. John was free to help Sherlock with cases on a more regular basis. Both of them realised this was partly Mycroft's way of having John keep an eye on Sherlock, but neither of them really cared all that much. John was happy for more adrenaline-fuelled chases around London and glad to be away from the boredom of endless flu shots. Sherlock was happy to have John around more, and quite honestly, to be able to show off their new relationship. He knew most of the Yard had been speculating about it for months.

It was a week or so after their new status as "boyfriends." They were at a crime scene and John got a text that the regular clinic doctor had gone home ill. They needed a replacement for the afternoon. John sighed – he'd much rather be here, but work was work, even if they had more money coming in now. He went over to Sherlock to tell him. Sherlock was absorbed in the case, and John didn't even expect eye contact. To his complete surprise, Sherlock stopped what he was doing, turned to face John, and actually listened to what he was saying. Then, in full view of Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade, kissed him full on the mouth, and said, "Okay, love, see you at home then."

It was hard to tell who was more surprised – John, Anderson, or Donovan. Lestrade wasn't surprised in the least, and just smiled. John recovered quickly. "No problem, love, I'll pick up some milk on the way home." Sally shook her head with something like disgust on her face, and Anderson just stood there with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

When John got home that night, he seemed vaguely amused by it all. "So, what was that all about earlier? Not that I mind, but I never pegged you for public displays of affection."

Sherlock's body stiffened. _Uh-oh._ "What? What's wrong?" Silence. "Sherlock, I'm not upset about it. I liked it. What's the problem?"

"You're going to be upset about it if I tell you."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I suspect that will be the case."

John was starting to lose patience. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I did it because I wanted them to see what you mean to me, but I also wanted to prove that I'm not the freak they think I am, and I realise that was probably wrong."

John sighed. "Sherlock, I'm not upset. Sally had it coming, and Anderson, well, he could use a kick upside the head any day of the week. And really, the fact that you want this to be public knowledge is quite, I don't know, quite wonderful actually. I'd just sort of assumed you wouldn't want it out there."

"No, John. You're quite wrong. I'm in love with a gorgeous doctor and he's in love with me. Why wouldn't I want everyone to know?"

"So, public displays of affection are fair game, then?"

"What did you have in mind?" Sherlock suddenly had a sly grin on his face.

John had been talking about holding hands and kissing in public. The conversation had clearly veered off the rails a few seconds back while he wasn't looking, and was now distinctly in Things You Can Get Arrested For territory. John blushed. Two could play at this game. "Perhaps you need me to take you, quick and hard, against the wall in an alley somewhere. Or shag you senseless in an empty train." _Damn, now he was getting hard._

Sherlock tried to maintain a look of indifference, and failed. Faint colour tinged his cheeks, and he swallowed.

John could see he was breathing harder, and a quick glance between his legs confirmed the obvious. "You sneaky bastard. You never told me you had a thing for exhibitionism!"

"I've never actually tried it, but I certainly find the idea appealing."

John laughed. "Yeah, so it seems." He walked over to where Sherlock sat on the settee, and straddled him. Slowly, he ground himself against him. "Perhaps we should do something about that. It seems like it would make a good experiment."

Sherlock got a thoughtful look on his face.

John immediately knew what he was thinking. "Really?"

"Well, Greg does like to watch. We could see if he's interested."

"Aren't he and Mycroft a thing now? I'd hate to screw that up."

"We could always invite them both."

The bottom unexpectedly fell out of John's stomach. He had a sudden flash of kneeling at Mycroft's feet; Mycroft towering above him in one of those suits. Something about Mycroft just made him ache to be submissive. He didn't know what it was, but he suspected it probably wasn't good, for anyone involved. "Um, I'm really not sure that's a good idea."

Sherlock would have needed to be blind and deaf not to deduce anything from John's reaction. He was a little breathless at the notion and his voice was ragged. "Oh, John. I had no idea. What is it you want to do with him?" There was no question he meant Mycroft, and John knew it.

This was suddenly at the top of the list of Conversations John Never Wanted to Have with Sherlock. _Especially_ not while straddling him on the settee. He didn't even know it had been on the list until just now. He hadn't been aware of it until Sherlock had mentioned the idea of having Greg there, and he'd extrapolated that to include Mycroft. It hadn't even entered his mind. But now, he couldn't get it out of his mind. "Nothing. I don't know. I… There's something about Mycroft that makes me want to submit to him. It's nothing overtly sexual. It's not… I don't want him instead of you. It's not that. I don't know what it is. I'd never even thought about it before. I'm sorry, I don't know why." John was desperate to make Sherlock understand – he didn't want his relationship with Sherlock going all wrong over some hardwired submissive kink in his brain. He rolled off Sherlock and sat next to him, his knees pulled up to his chest in a defensive posture.

Sherlock towered his fingers together and looked thoughtful. "John, I don't doubt that your feelings for me are unchanged. We already discussed the possibility of having Greg continue in our experiments. What difference does it make if Mycroft participates as well?"

John thought for a bit. _He's your fucking brother._ No. He'd already justified the "brother thing" internally. It was weird, and okay, it was a bit fucked up, but that was how they related to each other. He was okay with Greg being involved. Greg and Mycroft were clearly an item now, and neither of them seemed to pose a threat to his relationship with Sherlock. "I guess… I guess I'm just insecure. I still can't really believe you really want me. I don't want to lose you." _Oh great, now I'm being needy and pathetic. That's attractive._ "Can't we just forget this whole conversation?"

"No, John. Come here." He put his arm around John and pulled him close, John sort of sprawling over him awkwardly. John gripped him, unwilling to let go. Sherlock rested his head on John's and murmured into his hair. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere." They sat there in silence for a bit. "If it makes you feel any better, I constantly wonder why you put up with me. I know I can be a bit of a prat."

John giggled nervously. "Yeah, maybe a bit. Sometimes. But I'm still in love with you."

"Look John, we're both into the danger and excitement thing. We know that. If we're honest, we get off on it. The thought of you fucking me in a dark alley goes right to my cock. Greg watching us? That just adds to it. If Greg was still single, would you have a problem with that?"

"Um, no."

"Then shouldn't that be their decision?"

"Well, yes. But we're getting off the subject. The real question here is if Mycroft should participate."

"Why does it bother you so much?"

"Because I don't know _why_ I want to submit to him. That's why it's a bit out of control and scary. I don't have a good reason."

"Do you need one? If you find the thought of submitting to Mycroft compelling, I don't see why that's any different from Greg being around." He paused for a long minute. John could hear the smile in his voice, even though he couldn't see his face. "I know I find the thought of it pretty damned compelling."

 _Fuck._ And now he was blushing again. _Fuck._

He turned his body so he could kiss Sherlock. _Distract him._ Sherlock eagerly kissed back, but with a smirk still on his lips.

"You're not getting out of this that easily. This has been all about _my_ kinks. We need to explore some of _yours,_ too. Apparently one of them involves being on your knees in front of my brother." He was still smirking.

"I never said that!"

"I don't hear you denying it."

 _Bugger. Damn that brain of his._ "We don't know that Mycroft would even be interested in doing this." He was grasping at straws, now.

"Oh, I think we can be fairly sure he will be. He and Greg probably need to talk about it, of course, but I don't see Mycroft wanting to pass up an opportunity like this." His face turned serious. "Look, if you don't want to, I'm not going to press it. But if the idea excites you, I think we should explore it like we'd explore anything else. It's not going to change how I feel about you – you'll just have to trust me on that."

John did, although he couldn't have said why. Perhaps it was because he'd already entrusted his heart to this brilliant madman, and this wasn't as much of a leap as he'd feared. "Okay. I'm in."

Sherlock grabbed his phone. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

He texted Greg and Mycroft.

 _New experiment. Both of you are requested to participate. Figure out if that works for you, and let us know._

 _SH_

He showed John before he sent it. John nodded.

They weren't privy to the flurry of texts between Greg and Mycroft. (The conversation followed a surprisingly similar thread to the one they'd just finished.) The end result was texted back.

 _We're game if you are._

 _MH_

Sherlock looked at John and smiled. "Could be dangerous."

John just kissed him, glad that Sherlock had no concept of social norms whatsoever.

 _When and where?_

 _SH_

 _We're available tonight. Brown's Hotel in an hour? I'll send a car._

 _MH_

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his dark curls. "Discreet, I'll give him that."

John shook his head quizzically. "Never heard of it."

"Very pricey, very posh, ridiculously discreet."

 _Another perk of the job?_

 _SH_

 _Something like that._

 _MH_

Sherlock looked at John. "Well?"

"Okay, why the fuck not." It was a Friday. Nobody had to work in the morning.

 _See you then. Pack a change of clothes. No point in wasting a night at Brown's._

 _SH_

 _Indeed._

 _MH_

The car, a large one, showed up at Baker Street. They were surprised to find Greg and Mycroft already in the car. Sherlock and John stepped in, and sank into the plush seats facing the couple. Mycroft looked at Sherlock and John. "This is an unexpected surprise. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

John turned scarlet. Sherlock just smiled, and looked at John for permission before he spoke. John nodded, almost imperceptibly. "It would seem my better half finds the idea of submitting to you… compelling. And I would have to admit that I rather agree with him."

One eyebrow climbed high on Mycroft's forehead. "Well." And then he said nothing. Mycroft was apparently at a loss for words.

Greg sucked both his lips into his mouth and bit down, in an attempt to repress a grin. He failed, and let out a small giggle. He looked at John. "You're in good company, at least."

John closed his eyes and rubbed his hand roughly through his hair, focusing on the pressure on his scalp. _Breathe._

Sherlock reached over and grabbed his other hand, giving it a firm squeeze. John opened his eyes and smiled, a little nervously. "So, Mycroft, how did you end up with a room at Brown's?"

"I didn't - it's a suite. We use it for meetings sometimes. It happened to be available. The idea of four men showing up for a meeting there is nothing out of the ordinary. The fact that we have luggage won't even merit a blink. It's all about discretion. John… I must say, I hadn't expected this pleasure. Sherlock tends to be somewhat… possessive."

Sherlock shot Mycroft a look. "I can _share._ "

Mycroft shot him a look right back – a somewhat greedy look that seemed to ask 'just how much?' "Are you sure you're fine with this, John?"

John was sorted now. "Yes. And you two? This is okay?"

Greg replied, clearly not subbing for anyone at the moment. "Yes, we discussed it. As long as it doesn't affect our relationship, we're game."

John looked at them. _Would this make it easier, everyone being paired off in relationships? Or was it playing with fire? Or playing with a propane torch and a goddamned flamethrower? Fuck, I hope this goes well._

Mycroft shifted a little in his seat. "You know, Sherlock. We still need to discuss those rules."

"We will. Not now, though. Don't worry, I'll tell you if you're straying."

They arrived at the hotel. It was ridiculously posh. Mycroft apparently didn't need to check in; they just gave him room keys. They headed for the lift.

"The Kipling Suite. He apparently finished 'The Jungle Book' there. Perfect for meetings, and the bed is huge." Mycroft grinned. "And the sofa is really quite comfy, should we feel the need to branch out." His smile managed to be incredibly lewd, and John felt a stab of something that combined guilt, lust, and the need to be on his knees in front of this man. Greg recognized the look on John's face and smiled. _Ah, the weekend._ He loved weekends.

Sherlock looked at John with fascination. This hadn't been a light decision for him. John didn't compartmentalize his emotions like he did. He was impressed John was willing to go through with it. There was no denying it though; he wanted to see John on his knees in front of Mycroft as much as anyone.

Mycroft unlocked the door to the suite. It was huge. There were three full length windows in front of them, looking out onto the dark street below. To the right, there was a huge moss-green sofa that had to be eleven feet long, two chairs, and a coffee table. To the left was a door, which apparently led to the bedroom. There was a table with a full spread of sandwiches and drinks.

John and Greg just looked at each other. Even Sherlock looked impressed, despite himself. This was Mycroft's territory, and he looked completely at home. He led. Everyone, even Sherlock, followed that lead.

"Let's have a bite to eat and relax a bit. It wouldn't do to start out on an empty stomach, now, would it?" He placed a sandwich and some grapes on one of the china plates and settled into the red wing-backed chair. John wasn't sure if he could eat, but gamely took a sandwich. The other two did the same. John and Sherlock took the sofa, Greg took the other chair.

Mycroft knew a mistake tonight could ruin the tenuous relationship he'd restored with Sherlock. "So, Sherlock. What's the plan for the evening?"

Sherlock seemed a little taken aback. He'd expected Mycroft to forge ahead like he owned the place. (For all he knew, he might.)

"I'm not just going to ravish your boyfriend, at least not unless one of you asks me to. Your rules, remember? If I don't know what they are, I have to guess."

"John, tell him what you want."

Sherlock held his breath. When John spoke though, his voice was solid and decisive, any traces of doubt completely gone. "I want to submit to you, Mycroft. Whatever form that takes is entirely up to you. I want you to use me in any way you see fit. Sherlock, are you okay with that?"

Sherlock nodded, his mind too preoccupied with the possibilities inherent in John's statement for speech.

"Anything off limits, John?"

"No."

"Very well. Standard rules apply. You say 'stop' and we're done. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft smiled the satisfied smile of a dom with a new toy. "Finish your food. Take your time, we have plenty. When you're ready, remove your clothes and kneel at my feet."

The sexual tension in the room went up a notch. A hundred different scenarios ran through John's head, each getting him more turned on than the last. He didn't care what form it took – pain, humiliation, bondage, being a willing body for everyone in the room if that was what Mycroft wanted. _Oh bloody hell._ His cock throbbed at the idea. He choked down the last few bites of his sandwich and started to remove his clothes, making sure he was in full view of everyone. _This is not the time for modesty._ He folded them neatly and set them on the floor. He was completely hard. He knelt in front on Mycroft, his hands at his sides.

"Thank you, John. Now, it seems Greg is in need of a footstool over there."

 _Ohhh, that was good. He'd never done this._ He crawled slowly, on his hands and knees, over to the chair where Greg sat, his cock swinging heavily as he moved. He moved in front of Greg's chair, got himself into a sustainable position on his hands and knees, and straightened out his back. Greg placed his feet on John's back, and then took them back off. _Huh?_ Greg had decided John would make a handy table, as well. He put his plate on John's arse cheek. _That's cold._ He followed the plate with a glass of ice water, already condensing droplets on the outside of the glass, on the other arse cheek. _Fucking hell, really cold._ His arse twitched, involuntarily, from the cold, but the glass was didn't move. Greg settled back into his chair, and returned his feet to John's back, careful not to disturb the china.

All eyes were on John. John stared at the plush carpet and did his best impression of a footstool. _A footstool with a raging hard-on._

Mycroft attempted to start the conversation again, knowing the point was to let John wait. "So, Sherlock, I hear the two of you managed to cause a little stir at a crime scene earlier this evening." For once, it hadn't been surveillance – Greg had told him about it on the way over.

Sherlock smiled. "They were asking for it. I should have started rubbing up against him, but that really wasn't appropriate behaviour for a crime scene."

John had to use all his willpower not to start shaking with laugher. _Footstools. Don't. Laugh._

Greg had no such problem, and the laughter transmitted itself through his legs and onto John, shaking the glass of water precariously. Greg took pity on John – that really wasn't his fault, after all, and picked up the glass. There was a neat ring of water droplets on his arse cheek from the condensation. Greg leaned over, and idly traced his finger through the circle. Then he lightly blew on it.

 _Bloody fucking hell._ Somehow, he managed not to move. John was gaining a whole new respect for furniture - especially sentient furniture. He couldn't see the impressed look on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft stood. "Sherlock, a moment, if you will." Sherlock got up and followed him into the bedroom. His voice was low. "I would like to suggest that John pleasure each of us, at my direction. Is that acceptable?"

Sherlock's cock twitched. _Oh dear lord._ His mouth went dry. "Yes, I think he'd probably enjoy that. I know _I'd_ probably enjoy that."

"Good. I wanted to make sure you were fine with it. It's good to see you, Sherlock."

"You too, My." He kissed him, lightly, on the lips, and they returned to the living room.

"Alright then, is everyone done with their food? I think we should get started." Mycroft stood in front of John. All John could see was the lower half of his trousers and his shoes. Greg removed his feet and plate from John, brushing a few crumbs off his arse playfully. Everyone except John was still completely dressed. "John, you make an excellent footstool. Thank you. Now, stand up, and let me look at you."

John stood. His body tingled. He didn't think it was a blood circulation thing. Being _inspected_ like this by Mycroft was fucking hot. Mycroft took his time, examining him like he was an auction lot at Sotheby's. Mycroft's fingers traced the scar on his shoulder, slowly moving to his neck. _Breathe._ Every now and then, Mycroft would let out a murmur of appreciation. A firm hand cupped his arse and ran a finger up his spine. John knew he was supposed to keep quiet and stay still, and lord, he was trying. _But holy fuck._ Mycroft moved back in front of him, and cupped his balls, almost as if weighing them. John swallowed and tried to maintain his composure. Mycroft slowly moved his hand up the length of his ridiculously hard cock. John couldn't help it, he started to breathe faster. Mycroft's hand traced a line up to his right nipple and tweaked it. John bit the inside of his lower lip. _Oh, that helps. Why didn't I think of that before?_

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Well, I must say, he is stunning. Thank you for being willing to share." He leaned in close to John, and whispered in his ear. "Perhaps I should _share_ you with everyone." John's stomach did that _thing_ again. "But not until I've warmed you up a little, first."

"Greg, Sherlock, I'm sure you can keep each other entertained while I have a few moments with John. I'd like to put him through his paces. See how he handles."

 _Oh god yes. First the footstool thing, then the inspection and now this. Mycroft knew what he was doing, alright. It was sublime. Mycroft knew all about the psychological aspects of domination. Oh, yes._ He'd have to get him to teach Sherlock a thing or two, because _this_? Sometimes this was what he _needed._

Mycroft leaned in close again. "Are you enjoying this, John?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, it quite looks like you are." He eyed his cock lasciviously. "But we haven't even started yet. Perhaps you need to be punished for your enthusiasm."

 _Oh god yes, please._ He didn't trust himself to actually say anything.

"It's unfortunate. I didn't bring any of my little toys. Of course, that doesn't mean I can't put you over my knee."

John's knees nearly buckled.

Sherlock, who was snogging Greg in the chair, stopped and turned around. He remembered the last time Mycroft had spanked him (as legitimate punishment), and he was suddenly as hard as a rock.

Mycroft went back to the winged chair and sat at the edge of it. "Come here." John walked over to him. Mycroft grabbed his wrists and pulled him down over his knees, trapping his erection against his stomach.

John couldn't remember the last time he'd be spanked. He certainly couldn't remember the last time he'd been put over someone's knee. _Fucking hell. He wanted this so badly it hurt._

The contrast of John's naked body against Mycroft's dark suit was stunning. John could feel the weave of the expensive cloth on his chest. He could feel Mycroft's erection pressing into him. _Oh._

"Ask for it, John."

"Please punish me, sir."

Greg and Sherlock had decided this was all the entertainment they needed and just watched. They certainly had a fine view.

"Very good. I'm going to spank you. You may show emotion. In fact, I want you to. I want to hear you take this."

"Thank you, sir." He meant it, he really did. The thought of Mycroft's hand on his arse made him want to moan. He couldn't imagine what it was actually going to feel like.

He felt Mycroft move slightly as he pulled his hand back, and heard it swing through the air a fraction of a second before it made contact with his arse. "Nnngghhh." _No working up to it then, right._ The initial pain lit up his nerve endings, and he squirmed. Another smack, on his other arse cheek this time. "Ohhhh." He could feel the warmth spreading over his arse. Mycroft moved his leg slightly, deliberately grinding into John's cock. "Nnggghhh." "You're not supposed to be enjoying this, John." A volley of blows landed on his arse in quick succession, John's reaction turning into one, long moan. Mycroft reached between his legs and cupped his balls, pulling on them gently. Mycroft bent over him, and whispered, "You're quite the little pain slut, aren't you John? I had no idea."

John's face, already red from hanging over Mycroft's knees, managed to turn even redder. "Yes, sir."

Sherlock couldn't take it any longer, and went over to Mycroft's chair. He leaned close to his brother, his voice ragged. "I think he needs more, My."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to struggle for composure. Images flashed through his head of Sherlock bent over his knee. _Breathe._ "How many?" He knew his voice betrayed him. "Ten. But I'll take them for him." _Oh dear god._ He was so glad he was still clothed. Sherlock, on the other hand, had started shedding clothes as fast as he could. _Fuck._

John's head whipped around in surprise. "What?"

"I can't let you endure this alone, John." Sherlock knew this was not his place to interfere, but _fuck he needed this too._ "Please?" He wasn't sure if he was asking Mycroft or John.

Mycroft desperately tried to regain his control. "We're not done yet, John." His hand flew through the air and landed with another loud slap on John's arse, making him flinch. "It's a noble sentiment, but you've still got four more coming to you." John was glad. He didn't want this to be over so soon. Four more stinging blows rained down on his already pink arse, each one adding another layer of heat to the burning fire of his skin.

Sherlock was naked and kneeling beside John, watching intently as Mycroft's hand marked his arse.

Mycroft helped John to a standing position, and pulled him in for a kiss. _Oh, he tastes good._ John went with it, steadying himself on Mycroft. Mycroft's hand gently rubbed his sore arse as he kissed him.

Greg decided he had entirely too many clothes on, and started undressing. After all, Mycroft in a suit with everyone else naked was just plain kinky, and what could be wrong with that?

Sherlock watched John and Mycroft kissing with outright need on his face, but said nothing. When they finally broke the kiss, Mycroft motioned for John to kneel next to the chair. Greg, ever the conscientious one, went to the bathroom and returned with towels so they could sit on the chairs and sofa without clothes. Greg spread out the towel on his chair and took a seat. There was _no way_ he wanted to miss this.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was gazing up at him. He almost sighed. "What _am_ I going to do with you, Sherlock?"

His voice was quiet. "Please, My. Punish me?"

Mycroft wondered if it was breaking Sherlock's rules if Sherlock was begging him to do it. He hoped not, because he wanted this as much as Sherlock did. He grabbed Sherlock's hands and draped him over his knees. Sherlock was trembling. Mycroft had to close his eyes briefly. Sherlock's lush arse was right there, and he was begging to be spanked. _Oh bloody hell. How do I get myself into these things?_ He opened his eyes and glanced at John and Greg. Neither of them seemed to be freaking out. That was good. John was kneeling obediently, and Greg was sitting naked on a towel in the chair. _When did that happen? I'll have to remember to thank him for getting the towels later._

"How many, Sherlock?"

"Ten."

"Double that, for being a greedy brat and interrupting my time with John." A small moan escaped Sherlock's lips. Mycroft had no intention of telling him he was going to work up to it, and not go full bore on the first one like he had with John.

The first six were quick, three alternating slaps on each of those delectable arse cheeks. Sherlock let out a low moan. The next six were harder, pausing a little between each one to let the sting sink in. Sherlock started to moan more loudly. "Do I have to gag you, little brother? Don't forget we're not at home here."

Sherlock considered moaning louder to ensure it, but decided not to push his luck with Mycroft too far.

Six more. These were as hard as the ones John had received. Sherlock sucked in his breath, trying to remember what John had taught him about breathing through the pain. _Fuck this was good though._ He could feel his nerves singing.

"Two more, Sherlock."

"Yes, My. Please."

Mycroft's hand flew through the air and connected with a sharp slap. Sherlock couldn't help himself. "Nnggghhhh." Mycroft could see the outline of his handprint start to appear on his arse. Instinctively, he rubbed it. Sherlock sucked in a gasping breath and Mycroft realized what he was doing, pulling back his hand. "One more." He let fly on the other cheek this time, just as hard as the previous one. "Yessss…"

Mycroft helped Sherlock to his feet, careful to avoid additional contact. This was ostensibly to avoid rewarding bad behaviour, but actually because he really didn't think he could control himself if he went down that particular road. Besides, this was _supposed_ to be about John. He looked at Sherlock. "Kneel, there."

He looked at Greg, who'd apparently enjoyed watching. "Greg, if you'd like to come over here, I think Sherlock needs something to do with his mouth. Or you can both watch, but that's your choice, not Sherlock's."

Mycroft stood, towering over his brother and John, who were both still kneeling on the floor. "Now, John, I believe Sherlock mentioned something about you wanting to be on your knees in front of me. I'll warn you, I can be quite demanding. Right, Greg?" Greg laughed. "Yes."

John shuddered involuntarily - all the better. He wanted Mycroft to use his mouth for his own pleasure, not to be a considerate lover.

Mycroft moved directly in front of John, making sure Greg and Sherlock had a good view. He stood inches away from John's face. "Look at me, John."

John looked up. _Fuck._ It was just like the image he'd had earlier. _Mycroft looking down at me, still dressed._ He bit his lip, hard.

"Oh, I wouldn't bite those gorgeous lips of yours too hard. You're going to need them. It could be a long night."

John dearly hoped so.

Mycroft reached down and cupped John's chin with his hand, then slowly rubbing his hand over John's face. "Undo my trousers, but leave my clothes on."

 _Yes! How did he know?_ John smiled, and started working on his belt, then a button, and then a zip. Beneath it, he found boxers with a slit in the front. _Oh yes, this will work nicely._ With some effort, he worked Mycroft's cock out through the opening.

He knew from the meeting the other day that Mycroft was well proportioned, but this was the first time he'd been _this_ close _._ He had a sudden new respect for Greg.

Mycroft moved his hand to the back of John's neck.

 _No going back now._ John licked his lips and inhaled the scent of him. Different than Sherlock - expensive soap - and yet, there was something similar as well. He reached up and grasped Mycroft's cock to pull it down towards his mouth. Mycroft shuddered at the sudden contact, and then gasped involuntarily as John took him in his mouth as deep as he could. John started moving, tongue teasing the length of him. Mycroft let out a small groan of pleasure. John wanted to hear more of that. He started alternating between licking circles around the head of his cock and plunging it as far as he could into his mouth. With his hand slick, he worked the base of him at the same time, a little frustrated that he couldn't get at his balls.

Greg and Sherlock were just watching. Greg suspected it was going to be a long evening, and he didn't feel right depriving Sherlock of the sight of John sucking off Mycroft. It was fucking hot, especially with Mycroft completely dressed like that.

Mycroft grabbed the base of John's neck a little harder to steady himself. John was a lot better at this than he'd expected. He was using long, teasing strokes, pulling all the way off and licking the underside of his shaft before plunging him back inside his mouth. It felt delicious, but he could take that all night. _No, it was time to turn things up a notch._ He started to actively pump his hips, pushing into John's mouth. He felt John shift position to accommodate him. _Oh, yeah. That was nice. Not going to last too much longer at this rate. Time to make him work for it._ "Hands behind your back." John immediately dropped his hands and clasped them behind him. Mycroft placed his hands on John's head, and started to thrust hard and deep. Greg watched in admiration, knowing exactly what John was going through.

John relaxed his jaw as much as he could, and tried to keep up. Mycroft was staying pretty deep while he was thrusting and it was cutting off John's air supply a bit. He pulled out further and John gasped in a breath, feeling the oxygen hitting his brain. John realized how much he normally relied on other cues to tell how close someone was – it was difficult when they were mostly clothed like this, and, well, this was Mycroft. John wasn't actually sure if he had emotions most of the time.

John thought he could feel him starting to get larger. He swallowed to work the muscles of his throat against the head of Mycroft's cock. That did it. Mycroft shuddered violently, hanging on to John's head as he came deep in his throat. John was rewarded with one, single long moan. Mycroft pulled out, and John licked him clean. The moan had been worth it.

"Thank you, John."

"Thank you, sir."

John turned to Sherlock as Mycroft put himself back together. He grabbed his hands and pulled him up to him, holding him close.

"Hello, love. You okay?"

Sherlock looked like _he'd_ been fucked nine ways to Sunday, not John. He smiled. "Yes, love. Was that… like you wanted?"

"It was. Thank you. Thank you for doing that for me." He kissed Sherlock somewhat chastely. He knew he tasted like Mycroft, and wasn't sure what that would do to him.

"Can I?" John didn't have to ask what he meant. He kissed him passionately, letting him explore his mouth and his taste. Sherlock shifted in his arms, and relaxed. They came up for air, foreheads resting on each other, breathing heavily.

Mycroft had gone into the bedroom and had returned with three dressing gowns. He was wearing a fourth. He went over to Greg. He wasn't sure what to say, so he kissed him, gently. "Are you okay?" Greg nodded. "Not running screaming yet?"

"Not yet."

"I have told you that I don't actually want you to run screaming, right?"

"You have now." Greg smiled at him and kissed him again. "I think I must like you a _lot._ "

"I feel the same way." The irony of declaring their affection for one another in the current situation was not lost on either of them.

Mycroft handed out the dressing gowns. No one even bothered to ask why there were four dressing gowns in a room designed for two people. Mycroft's influence apparently knew no boundaries.


	19. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening at Brown's Hotel. It's always the quiet ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: d/s and slashy sex.

Sherlock was sprawled in the corner of the sofa with his legs up on the cushions. John folded himself back against Sherlock, needing a little bit of grounding before they went further. Sherlock closed his arms around him and pulled him closer, lightly kissing the back of his neck.

Mycroft watched with affection. It was good to see his brother showing such care and tenderness for someone, especially for someone like John. He motioned to Greg, who joined him just inside in the bedroom. He closed the door, and then he kissed him gently. "You're sure this is okay?" Greg nodded. "Yes. But it never hurts to check, thanks."

"You know, Greg, I've never actually done anything like this before – with more than one person I mean. It's more emotionally overwhelming than I'd expected."

"Yeah, neither had I until the three of us… well, started this." He'd filled Mycroft in on the general background, but they hadn't gone into specifics. "It can be very charged."

Mycroft smiled, marvelling at Greg's ability to handle these situations so smoothly. He wasn't sure how well he was doing with this. It was one thing to make sure one other person in a scene was doing okay – it was another entirely to ensure that three people were, especially when one of those people was Sherlock.

"You know, Mycroft, it's not like you're dealing with three subs, here." Then he thought about Sherlock. "Well, okay, perhaps you are dealing with two. One and half." He wasn't sure what Sherlock's status was. "But you don't have to worry about me in this, okay? And I think John is pretty well equipped to handle this emotionally as well." He realized what he'd just said. "Um, sorry. I didn't mean to imply…"

"No, Greg, your assessment is quite astute. It is Sherlock I'm worried about. As you know, our relationship is… complicated, at best. Something as charged as this could easily derail it. He does have a tendency to be very changeable around me – submissive one minute and struggling for dominance the next. His leaning tonight certainly seems to be submissive. I think we need to have a little chat. This might go a lot more smoothly if we establish up front exactly what role he wants to have." Greg nodded.

They returned to the living room. _This is going to be delicate._ "Sherlock, could I have a word?"

"Can't we talk here?" He was wrapped around John and clearly didn't want to go anywhere.

 _Like walking on eggshells._ "Alright." He stood next to them by the sofa. "Sherlock…" He paused, unsure of how to continue. "I know this experiment is about John being submissive towards me, but…" Sherlock's eyebrow had risen slightly. "I get the impression that you are feeling somewhat the same way tonight as well." _There, he'd said it. Now to see if anything exploded._

Sherlock sat in silence, trying not to look as fragile as he felt. John squeezed his hand reassuringly. _John, yes, John was here. Why did he need My like this? It wasn't supposed to go this way. He'd established that he was going to be in control, that there were going to be rules. But all he wanted to do was offer himself to Mycroft._ He could almost feel the neural connection in his brain as the realization hit him. He suddenly identified with _exactly_ what John was feeling – the primal need to submit to someone and give yourself over to them completely. He'd confused this submission with the less intense form he and John had experimented with before. In those sessions, they'd both retained some sense of control – some sense of equality. Realistically, that had been more about bondage than submission. This was something entirely different, deeper, and more charged. And, if he admitted it, slightly terrifying. _Could be dangerous._ His heart started to beat faster. Perhaps that was why it appealed to him so.

Mycroft stood in silence as he watched his brother think. It wasn't until he saw the faintest hint of a smile on Sherlock's lips that he allowed himself to breathe.

When Sherlock spoke, his normal energy had returned to his voice. "My, I want you to dominate both of us." A sudden thought made him pause. _Oh, right. "_ John, are you okay with that?"

John nodded. He was thrilled and somewhat surprised Sherlock had thought to ask him.

Mycroft considered his choice of words carefully. He didn't want this to come out the wrong way. "My preference would be to dominate you both at different times – not together. It's much easier to keep things grounded that way." _It's much easier for me to have a hope in hell of surviving it that way._ Like he'd told Greg, it wasn't John he was worried about. John knew exactly what he was doing as a sub. Sherlock had no idea, and on top of it, there was the whole _family_ thing. He was under no delusions that whatever it did for both of them, it was all kinds of fucked up.

"Agreed. John can continue. I can wait."

"Very well." Mycroft offered John his hand. "Are you ready, John?" John nodded and took his hand. Mycroft helped him to his feet. Greg had taken a place on the other end of the sofa. He wasn't sure of the personal space Sherlock wanted or needed.

"Be so kind as to remove your dressing gown."

 _Somehow, when Mycroft said it like that, it was even more commanding than just saying 'strip.'_ John undid the belt, and shrugged the heavy terrycloth robe from his shoulders. _And here I am, naked and half-hard again._ The adrenaline coursed through his system. _God I love this._ He could feel himself getting harder under Mycroft's watchful eye.

Mycroft's voice was pitched low, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "John, you will be providing the entertainment for the evening. Sometimes I will be providing direction; sometimes I will let us go wherever our base desires take us. John, you are not allowed to orgasm until everyone else has been satisfied." John shivered. _Fuck, that was hot. He was going to be used by three men at once. Okay, that was definitely new. And exciting. And now he was really hard._

Mycroft laid out a couple towels on the floor and retrieved a bottle of lube from his overnight bag. "John, I want you on your hands and knees over here. Sherlock, if you'd be so kind, I'd like you to prepare John's arse. I have a feeling it's going to be getting a lot of attention. Greg, I think John needs something to do with his mouth."

Sherlock shrugged off his robe. No point in staying dressed. He moved over to where John was kneeling. He knelt down and gave him an unhurried kiss. "I love you." John smiled at him. "Thanks. I love you, too." Sherlock moved to his arse, which was still pink and warm from the spanking earlier. He let his hands drift over the skin, barely touching it at first. He licked a slow stripe up John's spine with the flat of his tongue and blew on the resulting wetness. Then he moved back down to the base of his spine, and kept going, using his hands to spread John's arse cheeks as he licked between them, over his entrance, and down to his balls. He took one of John's balls gently in his mouth and sucked on it. John moaned. Sherlock did it with the other one, for good measure. Then he moved back up and started to circle his entrance with the tip of his tongue.

John couldn't help himself, and ground back against the delicious pressure of Sherlock's tongue. Mycroft's voice brought him back out of his trance-like state. "Greg, I know enjoy watching, but I fear John's focus is… lacking. Perhaps you could help restore it." Greg moved in front of John, smiling. _Usually it's me on my knees in front of him._ Greg removed his robe and presented John with his cock. John was on his hands and knees, and didn't have a spare hand for anything. John would have no control over the depth of his thrusts. Greg smiled - he'd at least try and be considerate.

John opened his eyes to see Greg's large cock, right there in front of him. He opened his mouth greedily as Greg eased it into his mouth. Sherlock was still working on his arse with his tongue, and was now starting to work his tongue inside him as well. _Fuck._ He instinctively moved back to get more of Sherlock's tongue inside him, which meant he unintentionally pulled back off Greg. Greg fixed that by thrusting into him harder, hitting the back of his throat and bring his full attention back to his mouth. _God, it's like they're competing._

"Sherlock, I want you to use those lovely fingers of yours to open him up a bit."

Sherlock grabbed the lube and used it to liberally cover the fingers of his right hand. He slowly slid one long finger into John, causing him to moan around Greg's cock. The sensation of _that_ caused Greg to moan, and Mycroft smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. This was all about stimulus/response, and when you got things going in a chain like that, good things were bound to happen. Mycroft moved behind Greg and rubbed himself against him, pushing him further into John. He wasn't sure who moaned that time. He thought it was both John and Greg.

Sherlock added another finger, and started going deeper, easily finding John's prostate. John shuddered and let out another groan. "More, John?" It was Sherlock this time. John's mouth was too occupied with Greg's cock to answer. John moaned and nodded slightly in assent. Sherlock withdrew his fingers and added some more lube. John whined slightly as he pulled them out. Sherlock slowly worked all three fingers into him, and then thrust them in, hard. John shuddered, and let out a deep, rumbling groan. The feral sound of it undid something in them. Greg started thrusting harder into John's mouth, Mycroft shed his robe and practically started rutting against Greg, and Sherlock decided that it was more than time to have his cock up John's arse.

John, for his part, had already been on sensory overload for a while. Greg was being fairly considerate with the depth of his thrusts, but his cock was still hard and thick against his tongue and completely filling his mouth. He was trying to make it a good blowjob, but at some point he (quite happily) resigned himself to being little more than a willing receptacle. There wasn't much he could do without being able to move or use his hands. Greg didn't seem to mind in the least. Sherlock's talented fingers had been working their delicious magic for some time. Every time Sherlock brushed over his prostate, he felt a jolt of electricity go through him. When he worked the third finger in there, and forced them all the way in, he couldn't contain himself. The groan hadn't come from his throat – it had come from his chest, from his whole body. It was a sound of utter need and desperation. He felt Greg's thrusts getting deeper, and felt Sherlock's fingers leave him again, only to be replaced by the head of his cock, lining up against him. He shoved himself back against it. Greg would have to cope. He needed Sherlock inside him. Right now. Sherlock met his thrust and drove into him all at once. There was nothing slow about it. _Oh fuck yes._ The sheer force of it impaled him deeper onto Greg, who gasped. Sherlock started fucking him at a blistering pace. Every time Sherlock thrust against him, he swallowed, working the muscles of his throat against Greg's cock. Now _that_ was something he had control over, and it seemed to be sending Greg out of his mind. Until then, he had been mostly silent, but he was now letting out a series of jagged moans as he thrust into John. John thought Greg might be getting close. Sherlock, never the quiet type, was uttering John's name as he thrust up against him. John's cock was straining against his stomach, and leaking pre-come. He wasn't sure he could hold off his release until everyone had come, but he was certainly going to try. John tilted his arse so Sherlock would have a better angle. He wanted him deeper. _Oh, yeah, right there. Fuck._ Sherlock pounded into him even harder. At this point, Greg's cock was definitely cutting off his air supply most of the time, and John's mind was starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. That meant he wasn't really expecting it when Greg came, in a great shuddering surge, down his throat. Greg pulled out of his mouth, and John gasped. Sherlock wasn't letting up his pace, and now that was all he could focus on.

Sherlock realized Greg was done, and pulled John back to him so he was in his lap, impaling him even more deeply on his cock. _Oh god yes. All the way, just like that._ Sherlock's eyelids fluttered at the sensation, and he forced his eyes back open. He wanted to see John like this, almost fucking himself – pulling up and then shoving himself all the way back down. _Bloody hell, that felt amazing._ He reached around to grab John's cock and was surprised when John batted his hand away. "Must… wait." Sherlock vaguely recalled his brother's instructions that John not be allowed to come. _Right._ _Well then, what was he waiting for?_ With that, he allowed himself to lose control, and felt his orgasm wash over him, filling John's arse with his release. He pulled John to him and wrapped his arms around him, murmuring endearments into his neck and hair. "My beautiful John. That was amazing. My sweet, sweet love." John was trembling, partly from emotion, and partly because he had never been this turned on and unable to do anything about it in his entire life. He looked up. Mycroft was holding Greg in much the same way Sherlock was holding him, but it was clear Mycroft was still aroused.

 _Oh._ Mycroft was the only one who'd come earlier, and he'd clearly recovered. John realized that this was nowhere near over yet.

He watched as Mycroft wrapped Greg in his dressing gown and settled him onto the sofa. John gently disengaged himself from Sherlock, and turned to kiss him. Sherlock was in a post-orgasmic haze, his kiss all tongue and hands running across his cheeks. John eventually pulled away and wrapped Sherlock in his own dressing gown, nudging him towards the sofa as well. He turned to face Mycroft, and knelt, once again, in front of him. Mycroft stood in front of him, naked, and seeming incredibly tall. There was a look of complete and utter _need_ on his face – an almost animal sense of lust that made John weak. And yet, he was still Mycroft – seemingly composed - but as if the slightest thing would fracture that composure into a thousand pieces and the need would take over completely.

Mycroft spoke, his voice betraying his lust, but his mannerisms incongruously intact. "Sherlock, will you allow me the pleasure of ravishing John?" Sherlock's eyes were tinged with lust as well. Sherlock's voice was low. "Yes, My." Mycroft glanced over at Greg, who nodded. Mycroft looked down at John. "I've been looking forward to this." He pulled John up to him and kissed him deeply, tasting Greg still on his lips. He twitched slightly at the sense memory. Mycroft kissed him for a while longer and eventually pulled back. He grabbed one of the pillows from the chair and placed it on the floor on one of the clean, spread-out towels.

"I want you on your back. I want to see your face as I take you." John was glad, because his knees had pretty much decided to give out on him when Mycroft said that. He half fell to the floor and positioned himself. Mycroft kneeled between John's legs and hooked them over his shoulders, shoving another pillow beneath his arse. He grabbed the lube and slicked up his cock, using the extra lube on his fingers to tease John's opening. _He was still relaxed from the thorough fucking he'd just gotten from Sherlock. That was a really good thing, because he didn't think he could wait a second longer._ He lined up against John, and without warning, drove it home.

John shuddered and groaned loudly. _Fuck. Mycroft knew what he was doing, and he was just waltzing right in there and taking it._ The position didn't give him a whole lot of flexibility. This was probably the best position for Mycroft to thrust into him as deep as he possibly could, and Mycroft was certainly taking advantage of that. The waves of pleasure as Mycroft hit his prostate on almost every pass were nearly too much to bear. Each sensation built on the last, like squares of tissue paper being stacked precariously on one another, waiting to be toppled by a passing breeze. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold himself off. Mycroft met his eyes and seemed to read his mind. "Don't." John didn't think it was possible, but Mycroft started fucking him even harder. John was trying to move up to meet his thrusts, but there was little he could do. Mycroft was completely in control here – physically and emotionally. It was that realization – that he had _absolutely no control_ – that gave him the submissive release he'd been seeking. He wilfully surrendered and gave himself over completely to Mycroft. His brain sang with it, thrilled at the freedom. It fluttered happily away.

Mycroft instantly became aware of the change in John. _There._ He was impressed – he'd not expected to see complete submission from him. That was something Mycroft usually only earned after a great deal of time and trust. He was honoured and touched that John had given him this.

Knowing his task was complete, he allowed himself to fully enjoy the glorious sensations of fucking John senseless. He reached down and started fisting John's aching cock. It wasn't long before they were both shuddering with release, John moaning Sherlock's name, Sherlock beaming at the realisation.

John collapsed in a heap with Sherlock on the sofa. Mycroft pulled Greg to his feet and kissed him. "How about a hot shower?"

"Mmm. Sounds good." They shuffled off to the huge glassed-in shower and ran the water as hot as they could stand it, soaping each other up and enjoying the togetherness.

John and Sherlock were an indefinable mass of limbs spread across the sofa. They'd somehow ended up with their heads at the same end though, and John nibbled at Sherlock's ear, lazily. "Love you." Sherlock nudged back against him. "Love you too."

When the shower shut off, they headed for the bathroom. On the bed were four fresh dressing gowns. Apparently Mycroft's power truly knew no boundaries. Mycroft and Greg were getting out of the shower, and John and Sherlock took their place. They let the steaming water seep into them, and propped each other up as they washed.

When they went back out to the living room, Mycroft had cleaned everything up and the room was generally looking less debauched. He produced a cold pitcher of orange juice from the cabinet and poured them all a glass.

They were exhausted but happy. Sherlock's need to be submissive, at least for the moment, had passed, and they all sat around in companionable silence. There was a unanimous decision that it was time for bed. It was only a king bed – technically not large enough for four – but with two couples happily entwined, it was large enough, and even Sherlock slept well.


	20. Pyjamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early morning at Brown's Hotel

  


None of them had brought pyjamas. John had always slept in an undershirt and boxers, but he'd given that up as a bad job as soon as Sherlock had started sharing his bed. Sherlock had slept in pyjamas ever since he was a child, but had given it up for precisely the same reason at precisely the same time as John. Greg, unless the heating was on the blink, had always slept in the nude. Mycroft had always slept in his pyjamas. The only exception to this was when he shared the bed with Greg. He allowed himself the pleasure of contact with Greg's skin, as it greatly outweighed the slightly panicky uncontained feeling that sleeping in the nude gave him.

It doesn't take long in a relationship to establish who sleeps on which side of the bed. Part of it is determined by sleeping position, and part of it by what just feels right. John slept on the left, Sherlock on the right. Mycroft slept on the right, Greg on the left. So, when the four of them crawled into the king sized bed that night, John noted with interest that Sherlock took the left side – the side next to Mycroft. Sherlock knew he'd noticed, but he needed this more. John didn't mind. He was getting used to the idea that physical contact equalled emotional contact between the two of them, and he mentally shrugged it off. Sherlock still curled around him like he always did, and John happily fell into a dreamless sleep.

Sherlock awoke before dawn. Three regular breathing patterns; he seemed to be the only one awake. He gently disentangled himself from John and turned to lie on his back. Mycroft had shifted position in the night and was now facing him. The light from the streets below gave the room a soft glow and he could see his face in the light.

Sherlock tried to remember the last time he'd seen Mycroft sleeping. It had been years. They'd been on a family trip to the "country" – the Lake District if he remembered correctly. They'd stayed with some distant relative in a large house, but not large enough that they each had their own bedroom. There had been two beds, and Sherlock had woken up before Mycroft, fascinated by the sight of him sleeping. They had separate bedrooms at home, and by the time he saw Mycroft each day, he was dressed and eating breakfast in the formal dining room with the rest of the family.

Sherlock had always been fascinated by sleep, even as a child. He'd found a dead bird on the ground when he was four, and the nanny had told him it was sleeping, unwilling to explain the concept of death to a four year old. Sherlock knew about death of course, even at four, but he'd associated the two states ever since. It wasn't a particularly morbid fascination; it was just a fascination with the lack of control you had over your body while you slept. Death was a very intense version of sleep. Well, except you rarely woke up, unless someone got to you quickly enough.

And so, in that house in the Lake District, he'd watched Mycroft sleep for over an hour. He mentally catalogued his movements, watched his eyes move while he was in REM sleep, and took in the peaceful expression on his face. Even at that age, Mycroft rarely looked peaceful when he was awake. He usually just looked worried.

How long had it been? Probably thirty years. Mycroft's face was much different now, of course, but the peaceful expression was the same. Only now, he saw that expression when he was with Greg as well. And he'd seen it the other day, after they'd fucked. It was beautiful, to see him like this. Normally he was so… weighed down by his job and his responsibilities. He drank in the sight of him like this, so rare. It was so good to have him back. Last night, he'd realized he wanted to submit to Mycroft, to give himself over to him completely and let him do as he wished. It sent a thrill of excitement through him. It would let him atone for his behaviour and encourage the healing of their new and tenuous bond. The bond that was similar, and yet completely different, to the emotional connection they'd once shared when he was a child.

Mycroft opened his eyes and saw Sherlock gazing back at him with something like wonder on his face.

"Morning, My. I'm sorry I woke you." His voice was a whisper. He knew he'd been thinking too loudly.

Mycroft leaned in and gently kissed him, then pulled away. In bed, with his new lover, and Sherlock's new lover? Not the time or the place to go there. The thought of Sherlock submitting to him made him tingle all over. He didn't really believe Sherlock knew what complete submission was. His need to be in control of every situation, emotional or otherwise, had almost defined him since he'd gotten clean. He'd been stunned to hear that he'd declared his love for John. He'd honestly not thought it possible – what was love, if not lack of control? Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps it wasn't an inability to cede control – perhaps he just didn't trust anyone enough to want to. The thought that maybe Sherlock was willing to trust him - trust him with that submission - made his heart swell.

"Morning, little brother." It was said with affection, not the usual sarcasm that Sherlock associated with the moniker.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him back, slightly longer, but just as chaste.

Mycroft turned over to lie on his back, and woke up Greg and John in the process. Sherlock and Mycroft turned their attention to their lovers. Sleepy glances at ridiculous hair and pillow-crumpled faces gave way to slow grins recalling the previous evening, and then to low murmurs and less chaste kisses in the rare early morning sunlight.


	21. Hotel Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is served at the hotel, and excessive amounts of hot water are used in the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Holmescest.

Breakfast arrived with a knock at the door. Sherlock glanced over at his brother, who was currently preoccupied with Greg. "Do you always have breakfast sent up?"

"Only when I'm sleeping with the people I'm meeting with. Although it's generally not my preferred method of diplomatic relations." Greg raised an eyebrow. Mycroft relented. "Alright, there's a first time for everything. But I did tell them to send it up. As you said, it seemed a shame to waste a night here."

"Seems a shame to waste a morning here, especially if we can have breakfast first."

Mycroft smiled as Greg rose and put on his dressing gown. "I'll get breakfast set up."

"Don't bother – just answer the door – they'll set it up for us. I'm going to get a shower. Join me?"

The look on Greg's face was all the answer he needed.

Sherlock watched Mycroft retreat to the large glassed-in expanse of the shower. He let out an almost inaudible sigh – 'almost' being the operative word. Greg had just walked back in the room and exchanged a knowing glance with John, who'd also picked up on Sherlock's slight change in mood.

It was, as Sherlock might have said, obvious to even the most casual observer. Sherlock _needed_ to interact with Mycroft on a physical level. That intimacy gave them a shared closeness that had been missing in both their lives for so many years. Being a Holmes was not easy, and regardless of the burgeoning relationships with their lovers, no one else understood what it really meant to live with the genius and the madness in their brains. Sherlock had spent so many years resenting Mycroft and shutting him out of his life, all he wanted to do now was atone and make up for lost time. Sharing each other's bodies seemed like the most natural way of doing that. Sherlock almost didn't care what John thought, but the part that did prevented him from following Mycroft into the shower.

John looked at Greg, who nodded. They both got this. John gently touched Sherlock on the shoulder. "Go, love."

Sherlock turned back and kissed John. "Thank you." He leapt off the bed and headed for the shower.

Greg looked at John. "Breakfast or voyeurism?" There was a slight smirk on his lips.

John started. "Um, breakfast I guess. It seems like eavesdropping." He paused. "Although, I won't deny it's bloody hot."

John put on his dressing gown and the two made their way into the other room, where breakfast had been set out by the efficient staff.

Mycroft had put the water on as hot as he could stand it, letting the steam soak into his sore muscles. He lathered up his hair with the sage-scented shampoo the hotel provided. It smelled wonderful, and he breathed it and the steam deeply into his lungs. Because he was using the shampoo, his eyes were closed. He heard someone enter the shower and assumed it was Greg.

He felt a long, slender body press up against his back, arms encircling him around his chest and waist. "My."

He pulled away, surprised by Sherlock's presence. He'd been expecting Gregory, and to have Sherlock be there instead was mentally jarring. He whirled around, disengaging himself and wiping the water from his eyes. "Sherlock? Where's Greg?"

"He and John are having breakfast. They know. It's okay."

Mycroft had tried to explain it all to Greg after the first afternoon at 221B. In what could only be termed a small miracle, Greg seemed to understand that this was not some horrendous violation of trust between the two of them. John seemed to understand the same thing. That fact they both not only allowed, but also respected this odd method of familial bonding, was a rare and precious gift they had bestowed upon Sherlock and Mycroft.

Mycroft's worried features eased. Sherlock pulled him in for a kiss, the water flowing over their faces as their lips met. Sherlock thrust his tongue into his brother's mouth and pulled Mycroft against him. Mycroft took the mental plunge and scraped his well-manicured fingernails down Sherlock's back. Sherlock arched into it, pressing himself closer, grinding against Mycroft. By the time they came up for air, they were both breathing heavily. Sherlock's dark curls framed his face as he whispered in Mycroft's ear. "Need you, dear brother. I need to submit to you."

A small smile played at the edges of Mycroft's lips. His voice was low, and not without amusement. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into? Do you actually want to submit to me, or do you just want me to take you, hard and fast against that wall? They are completely different things, you know. I wouldn't want you… confusing them."

"I want both. I'm not confusing the two. I want to submit to you to atone for all the years I was a complete and utter prat. I'm fully aware of what that entails, and I'll let you choose the form of the submission. But I also know that I want you to fuck me senseless, and that there's no submission in that, other than the obvious. Right now, I need you to fuck me, My. I need to feel you inside me, possessing me. Forgiving me."

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew just how esoteric some of his particular kinks were. If Sherlock truly wanted to submit to him, he wanted to do it right, and that meant the playroom in his apartment. But the sex, god, the sex. He'd mentally fought this for so many years, and that afternoon at Baker Street had unleashed something after all those years of repression. He'd replayed that scene enough in his head, god knows. He'd relished the closeness it had brought them. But he'd also relished the primal need of it all, and he desperately wanted it again – wanted this time to be the one doing the taking. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back slightly, his voice a low growl in Sherlock's ear. "I should warn you. I have quite a voracious appetite." He played his teeth across Sherlock's unmarked expanse of neck. Sherlock groaned, the sensation of Mycroft's teeth and the hot water playing over his skin.

"Devour me, My."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with deep affection, and pushed him to his knees on the hard slate floor of the shower. Sherlock wasted no time and greedily wrapped his mouth around Mycroft's cock. The irony that Sherlock was the one doing the actual devouring was not lost on either of them.

Mycroft toyed with the idea of finishing his bathing rituals while Sherlock serviced him. It would add a delicious sense of domination to the proceedings. But the sight of his little brother on his knees in front of him, greedily sucking his cock, was more than enough. Sherlock's idea or not, he still knew this could veer off in the wrong direction if he wasn't careful, and he didn't want that.

Mycroft gave himself over to the hot, wet stimulation of Sherlock's mouth. He was good. Surprisingly good. John and Greg were to be congratulated, apparently. Of course, Sherlock had always been a quick study, at anything he'd put his oversized mind to. This was no exception.

He pulled Sherlock back up to him. Sherlock let out a small whimper of protest. "I wasn't done."

"Whether or not _you're_ done has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock felt that go straight to his cock. Submission. Right. He didn't get to have a say in this.

"Now, the question is, do I take you here against the wall of the shower, out there on the bed, or bent over the back of the sofa?"

Sherlock and Mycroft had never really had much use for vocal conversation. _God My, just take me, any way you want._ Mycroft pushed Sherlock against the wall of the shower, facing the wall. He pushed himself up against Sherlock, grinding his cock against Sherlock's arse. Sherlock moaned. _Please._

Mycroft glanced around. No lube, but there was some expensive body wash courtesy of the hotel. He smiled to himself – he was sure somebody at the hotel would be horrified if they knew. He poured some into his hands, using one hand to lube up his cock, and the other to slather it on Sherlock's arse. He was almost unbearably hard.

Mycroft slid his cock up and down between the generous cheeks of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock decided telepathy wasn't working. "Goddamnit My, quit being such a tease and fuck me already."

Well, since he put it like that.

Mycroft kicked Sherlock's legs further apart and lined himself up. With one hard thrust, he shoved himself all the way in. Sherlock let out a low, guttural moan of pleasure.

In the breakfast room, during an otherwise civilised breakfast, John and Greg looked at each other with wide eyes. The sound was so sexual, so deliciously obscene, that it suddenly had them wondering if they should slather the jam on each other instead of on the toast.

Mycroft groaned as well. _Oh god, Sherlock. Fuck, I've wanted this. Is this what you wanted? Is this how you want it?_

"God yes, My. Harder."

Mycroft braced one hand on the wall of the shower, and the other on Sherlock's hip. He drove himself hard into Sherlock, feeling the pleasure course throughout his body.

 _Yes, My, like that. Fuck, yes._ Sherlock bent to meet his thrusts, trying to get him deeper.

A sudden, disturbing thought went through Mycroft's brain, too quickly to mask it. _Oh god, now that we've done this, I don't know if I can give it up._

Sherlock turned to look at him. "S'okay. We'll figure it out. Don't. Stop."

Mycroft didn't stop, but he did slow his pace to a teasing crawl.

 _What the hell, My?_

 _I want to savour every minute of this, of your delectable body, of your delectable mind._ Mycroft's whole body was pressed against him, fully inside him, sucking greedily on his neck and earlobe. _Thank you for letting me in like this._ He wasn't talking about the sex, and they both knew it.

A sudden, hard thrust from Mycroft got another vocal moan from Sherlock (and Mycroft, as well).

Greg decided he'd had quite enough of a civilised breakfast, thank you very much. He leaned over the table and started snogging the hell out of John. John couldn't have agreed more.

Mycroft returned to the slow, gentle thrusts that were driving Sherlock out of his mind.

 _My, please. I can't take this. I want it hard._

 _I thought you wanted to submit? Perhaps I want you slowly._

 _Nnngghh._

 _Let go, Sherlock._

 _Can't. I need you. I need this._

Mycroft pulled out completely.

"No…"

 _Let. Go._

Sherlock took a long, deep breath. _Okay, I'm trying._ Breathe. _I swear._

Mycroft waited. He could feel Sherlock trying not to articulate his need. The need was still there, but that was fair enough. He needed this pretty damn hard as well.

 _There you go… Like that. You've always been a quick study. And that? Gets you this._ He slammed into Sherlock, hard.

 _Oh, god yes._ That was both of them.

Mycroft felt his own willpower evaporate like the steam that surrounded them. So much for his control.

John and Greg had given up on breakfast entirely and were rutting against each other on the sofa, neither of them sure if it was entirely appropriate for them to actually have sex.

Mycroft wasn't holding back any more. He thrust into him with hard, smooth strokes, eliciting a series of low groans from Sherlock.

 _Yes, My… Fucking hell, yes._

Sherlock was still braced against the wall, and Mycroft was now slamming into him with both hands firmly gripping Sherlock's hips.

Mycroft started to feel himself fall over that long drop and grabbed Sherlock's cock to bring him over at the same time. He felt Sherlock stiffen and shudder his release over his hand. Mycroft came then, deep inside Sherlock. He was draped over him, holding him as they both got their breath back.

When his senses returned, Sherlock could feel Mycroft shaking.

"What? My, are you okay?"

The shaking got worse, and suddenly Mycroft was laughing like an idiot. He could barely breathe he was laughing so hard.

"What the hell?"

"Sherlock. Your arse. I'm sorry…" More fits of giggling from the normally calm bastion of dominance.

Sherlock twisted around to see his reflection in the glass wall of the shower. His arse was covered, literally covered, in mounds of incongruous tiny white bubbles. The body wash, the thrusting - it had all turned into a giant bubble bath of sorts. Sherlock's arse was now, quite possibly, the cleanest arse in the history of mankind, or at least in the history of body wash.

Sherlock dissolved into fits of giggles right along with Mycroft. They both collapsed in a heap against the wall of the shower gasping for breath, the water still coming down around them.

"Maybe I should have used the conditioner."

That set off a new round of giggles. Eventually, Greg and John walked in to see what all the giggling was about. All they found was a very steamy room smelling of sage, and two very clean, giggly brothers in a long-limbed heap by the wall.


	22. Corset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John buys Sherlock a corset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the same 'Corset' as the standalone story. However, it's really part of this series, so I'm putting it here too.

  


John had always had a thing for corsets. It was probably a side effect of too many historical BBC dramas on the telly when he was growing up. He'd offhandedly brought it up when Sherlock had mentioned wanting to be restrained, hoping it would intrigue Sherlock as much as it did him. It had garnered a raised eyebrow, which was all the permission and encouragement John needed.

He'd wanted it to be a surprise, so he decided to start simply – without taking multiple measurements. Many of the high end corset designers had models for men. These stopped below the chest, but took into account the different waist heights between the sexes. All he needed, at least at this stage, was a waist measurement. Needless to say, Sherlock wasn't much for doing the washing, so John already knew it. Subtract four inches and place the order. There wasn't much to it.

It arrived in the post about a week later. He nonchalantly hid the box in his room to examine later.

It was a deep blue satin with a delicate silver leaf design. There were fourteen steel stays that gave it strength and rigidity. It laced in the back, and it used a steel busk closure in the front. These were like rivets that slotted into u-shaped steel closures – they allowed the corset to be put on or removed without completely undoing the lacing.

John couldn't have been happier with the purchase. The colour of it was going to contrast so nicely with Sherlock's pale skin. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

Sherlock was between cases, and bored. He was lying on the settee, idly flipping through a copy of _Forensics Monthly_.

"John, what _are_ you doing up there?"

_Caught. Well, no time like the present, for the present, as it were._

He went downstairs holding it behind his back. "I got you a present, love."

One eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Oh, the box you squirreled away in your room?"

So much for nonchalant. He decided to ignore the comment. "It's a corset." He held it out for Sherlock to examine.

"Oh, John." Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. "It's lovely." He began to examine it like he would a corpse, his long slender fingers moving in fascination over the smooth fabric and steel boning. He held it up to his face and moved it slowly down his cheek, his mouth open a fraction and his eyes closed, drinking in the feel of it.

With that look on his face, it was all John could do not to push him to the settee and take him right there. Instead, he straddled Sherlock's legs and started working on the buttons of his shirt.

Sherlock was still examining the corset, now playing with the long laces on the back. It laced from the top and the bottom, meeting at long loops in the centre of the back.

John made quick work of the shirt and paused for a second to admire the toned expanse of Sherlock's chest. _This is going to be sublime. God, I hope he enjoys this. I know I'm going to._ "Stand up."

John removed Sherlock's trousers. No pants, no surprise there. Sherlock smiled at him. He was already getting hard. "Put your arms up for a sec." John grabbed each end of the corset, and wrapped it around Sherlock's waist, connecting it at the steel busk in the front. The colour was perfect against his skin. The top of the corset left his nipples pleasantly exposed. The bottom of the corset curved over the top of his hips and gently dipped towards his groin. _Oh, yes._

Sherlock watched John's face with amusement. _His respiration is up, and he's blushing._ He was getting as turned on by this as Sherlock was.

The laces, already loosened beforehand, allowed John to easily close the front of the corset. "Ready?"

"Yes, John." His voice sounded a little ragged.

John smiled. He'd never done this, but he'd discussed it in great detail with the corset designer, and he knew what to do. "Turn around, love, and brace yourself against the wall." Starting from the top, and alternating with the bottom, he pulled the slack out of the laces. He fed the slack towards the loops in the centre. "How are you, love?"

"Oh… This is…" Sherlock paused. "I can see why you put this in the 'restraint' category."

"We're not done yet. Are you braced? I'm going to tighten the laces."

"Yes."

Wrapping the laces around one hand, and steadying his other hand on Sherlock's waist, he started to pull the laces slowly tighter. He didn't want to cause any burns on Sherlock's pale skin. The corset tightened. Sherlock's already small waist got smaller. It made his arse look even more spectacular than it normally did. "God Sherlock, you're gorgeous. How's your breathing? Are you doing okay?"

"Oh John…" His breaths seemed slightly laboured. "Make it tighter."

John smiled. _He's enjoying it._ He pulled harder on the laces, and Sherlock's waist assumed the beautiful wasp-shaped curves associated with corsetry. _Holy fucking hell. This man's body was made for a corset._ The normally well-defined expanse of arse was even more well-defined now. It made John's mouth water. Still holding on to the laces, John traced the curve along Sherlock's side, marvelling at the shape of it. "How's that?"

"Just a little tighter."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it feels exquisite. Make it tighter. Please."

 _Jesus. Who was he to refuse?_ He braced himself against Sherlock and once again tightened the laces. "Still okay?"

"Yes. Oh, god, yes."

John knotted the laces into a bow, and turned Sherlock to face him. Sherlock had a look of sheer wonder on his face. "John, this is sublime." John couldn't have agreed more. "It feels like breath play. I can still breathe, but only shallow breaths. It's like full body bondage. It's exquisite."

John looked at him, his eyebrows raised and lips pressed together in that look of "I've never seen anything quite like this" that he so often got.

Sherlock stood in front of him, naked except for the corset. He was flushed, his pupils were completely blown, and he was ridiculously hard.

John was in much the same state. "You have to see yourself, love. You look amazing." John took his hand and led him to the window. The darkness outside acted as a mirror, and Sherlock was never one to forgo a little exhibitionism.

The corset dipped down slightly into the nest of dark curls at the base of his erection. His cock jutted out in front of the silky fabric of the corset. Sherlock's nipples were small, pink buds, contrasting nicely with the dark blue satin. He was stunning. But the real treat was the view from behind.

"Turn around, love. You have to see your arse. Oh, fucking hell." John was reduced to little unidentifiable noises and started chewing on his knuckles. With his other hand, he steadied Sherlock as he turned around and looked back to see the other view. John watched Sherlock's expression in the window as he saw his reflection. Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise.

Sherlock had known on an intellectual level that he had a nice arse. John had mentioned it on many occasions. He had not, however, until this moment, realised the magnificent splendour of it. The laces of the corset formed a lovely criss-cross pattern of black against his pale skin, pointing directly down to the crack of his arse. His arse cheeks blossomed around it, highlighting the narrowness of his satin-clad waist. It did, he had to admit, look spectacular.

John couldn't restrain himself any longer, and pulled him in for a kiss. He forgot, for a moment, that the corset prevented Sherlock from bending at the waist. Sherlock made a small surprised sound, falling towards John as the corset pressed against him. John caught him and kissed him passionately. When they pulled apart, they were both breathing hard – John in deep gulping breaths and Sherlock in small shallow breaths.

"What do you think John?" The look on Sherlock's face left nothing to the imagination. The only question was how.

"Oh god, yes."

Sherlock, with the sort of impeccable posture he'd never had in his life, slowly made his way up the stairs. "Now I know why you never see drawings of Victorian women curled up in chairs."

John looked at Sherlock and looked at the bed. "Which would you prefer? I think our position options are, um, limited." Sherlock knew precisely which position would both complement the corset and completely undo John; he crawled onto the bed and positioned himself on his hands and knees. He was right.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock." John was tearing off his clothes like a man possessed.

Sherlock doubled up the pillows beneath his hands, positioning him a little higher so he could breathe more easily.

The bed dipped as John crawled behind Sherlock. "Holy fuck. You look amazing." His hands were all over him, moving over his satin-clad waist and his even-more-glorious-than-usual arse. He dipped his head and started enthusiastically tonguing Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock hadn't been expecting this and let out a low groan. John's hands were kneading Sherlock's arse cheeks as he spread them to get better access. His tongue thrust inside Sherlock's hole, causing a small "unf" from the other end of the bed. Sherlock was gasping in short, shallow breaths. "Damn it, John… I need… you… to fuck… me."

John was never one to refuse an invitation, and grabbed the lube. He slicked himself up, and pushed himself into Sherlock in one long, slow slide.

"Nngggh… Feels… amazing."

Giving him a second to adjust, John ran his hands over his lover's wasp-like waist, and then clenched at his arse again. He started to pull back, and then thrust himself back in, hard.

"Yessss. More."

John gazed at his lover's back as he fucked him. The laces made such lovely patterns against his skin. _The laces. Oooh, the laces._ He smiled. He grabbed the laces in one hand and used them for leverage, pulling Sherlock back hard against him. _Waist bondage._

Sherlock moaned. _He's holding onto the laces like they're goddamned_ reins _. Oh dear lord, if he keeps this up, I'm going to come all over the sheets without so much as a hand on my cock._ The pressure in his arse, the pressure encircling his waist, the pressure of John pulling on the laces, the inability to draw a full breath – all of these contributed to the sensory overload of being fucked halfway into next week while wearing a corset.

The corset, while not making things physically much different for John, was certainly contributing its own mindfuck to the proceedings. Seeing Sherlock like this undid John in ways he couldn't even begin to explain, and he was pretty sure it didn't have anything to do with the BBC. He pounded into him, trying to deepen his angle to hit Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock felt the sudden shock of electricity go through him, and his arms almost collapsed from the pleasure. "Oh god John, there."

John's sweat-slicked skin smacked against Sherlock's arse as he felt himself get closer to release.

A litany of moans and words that might have been English escaped Sherlock's mouth. "Harder."

John felt Sherlock shudder beneath him as he was overcome. That was all it took to do him in as well, coming deep inside Sherlock. They both stayed in that position for a minute, trying to catch their breath. Sherlock was trying harder than John. John's head cleared and he realised Sherlock was still laced up and would probably appreciate a few deep breaths. He pulled out of Sherlock, earning a moan for his efforts. He undid the knotted bow and loosened the laces. Sherlock immediately breathed deeply like he hadn't done so in weeks. He carefully took Sherlock's weight and laid him on his back, away from the mess on the sheets. He undid the busk at the front, allowing the corset to fall to the side.

Sherlock had a transcendent look on his face. "Thank you, John. That was incredible."

John smiled. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I know I did." John kissed him and got up to grab some towels. Sherlock shifted so he was lying on his stomach, a lazy grin on his face. When John came back in, he gasped a little.

"What is it?"

"The laces, the stays – you can see them on your skin – indentations where they were. It's lovely." Entranced, John traced the lines with his fingers as Sherlock moaned contentedly under his warm hands.

John kissed his neck and lay down beside him. "So, this was a success then?"

The only reply he got was a warm moan.


	23. Putting on a Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a headache. Sherlock has just finished a case. Something, somewhere has to give.

  


Their dalliance at the hotel a fortnight or so behind them, John and Sherlock's life had settled back into a more or less normal routine. The one exception to this had been John's gift of a corset to Sherlock, which had been appreciated by both of them.

John had been through a rough day at the clinic. First, an endless parade of flu shots, and then he'd seen a suicidal teenager whom he'd had to have sectioned. Once he'd gotten the young man transferred to the hospital, it was long past dinner time. He came home with a pounding headache.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was basking in the glow of a successful case. He was eagerly looking forward to some post-case sex with John. With any luck, he'd be able to wear the corset again. Feeling particularly charitable, he decided to try out some relationship advice Greg had "offered" him. "John, how was your day?" Sherlock considered this to be "useless small talk," but Greg assured him that interest in John's work was something he would appreciate.

"Bloody fucking awful." He looked at Sherlock in confusion. _He'd never asked before._ _Had he blown something up again?_ "Why?"

"Um, no reason. I was just wondering how your day went." _This was precisely why he didn't go in for this type of conversation. It was so unpredictable._

"Oh. Well, my head is killing me, and all I want is some paracetamol and some sleep. Night, Sherlock." John trudged up the stairs with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Sherlock tried reading. He fidgeted. He paced. He calculated the growth rate of maggots in decomposing flesh. It wasn't helping. All he could think about was John, upstairs, in bed. True, John was in pain and trying to sleep, but he was in bed.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to bother him, and he gave in to the ridiculous demands of his body. He curled up on the settee and reached into his pyjamas. He palmed his growing erection, rubbing himself slowly. He got lost in memories of the corset and what they'd done with it.

Suddenly, he heard a creak from the loose board at the top of the stairs. His head whipped around to see John standing there, wearing an undershirt and pants. "John… How are you feeling?" He heard the guilty tone in his voice. He attempted, with subtlety he hoped, to remove his hand from his pyjamas.

John gave him a small smile. "Please, don't let me interrupt."

Sherlock felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "How's your head?"

"Still throbbing. I was coming down to get something stronger." He descended the stairs and went into the kitchen, fumbling through the cabinets to find his migraine prescription.

Sherlock crouched on the settee like a tiger ready to pounce. He wasn't sure how to handle this. John was still clearly not feeling up for sex, but now he was aroused, and he didn't really want John to know it. He wanted him to think he was above that.

John glanced at Sherlock. He felt bad for interrupting what was obviously a private act, but he felt worse for going upstairs in such a snit earlier. It wasn't _Sherlock's_ fault he'd had a crap day. He downed the stronger pills, and made himself some tea. "Tea?" Sherlock nodded. He took the tea in to the front room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have stormed off like that. It wasn't your fault."

Sherlock stopped crouching on the settee and moved back to sitting on it. "It's fine, love. I was just hoping… Well, you know, it was a good day. I solved the hotel murder. It was poisoned toothpaste."

"Dental hygiene can kill."

"So it seems."

"Look, sweetie, I'm sorry I'm not up for anything, but I do feel bloody awful…" He paused. "You know though, I would like to watch."

Sherlock looked horrified. "What?"

"You heard me. I interrupted you. I'd like to watch."

He could see Sherlock turning the idea over in that ridiculously large brain of his. "Do you have any idea how sexy you are, love? The thought of watching you get yourself off…" He trailed off.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. It did have a certain appeal – putting on a show for his lover, rather than shamefully rubbing one out to satisfy his irritating bodily needs, alone in the dark.

John settled into his chair, sensing Sherlock's change of mood.

"Alright." There was a hint of a smile on his lips. He settled back onto the settee. "Alright, my love. How very _meta_ , you watching me, thinking of you." He stripped off his shirt, and his eyes fluttered closed as he ran his hand over his chest. His hand stopped at his left nipple, brushing over it until it hardened. His mouth opened slightly and he sucked in a breath as he squeezed it, summoning the twin sensations of pain and pleasure.

John watched, silently cursing himself. He should have known he wouldn't be able to remain impassive, not watching this beautiful, sexy man pleasure himself. He knew this migraine was going to get much worse before it was going to get better – arousal did that with migraines – but he didn't care. He couldn't have cared less if he'd been bleeding out from an open wound. All he wanted was to watch Sherlock. _Oh fucking hell._ He was getting so very hard, just watching, and Sherlock had barely started. He pushed himself back further into the chair, forcing himself to watch – to _only_ watch.

Although his eyes were closed, Sherlock knew John was watching him – he wanted John to see what he did to him. With his other hand, he grabbed a fistful of his dark curls and pulled, his neck arching back. His hand left his hair and trailed slowly down his neck, across his chest, and down to the top of his pyjamas. He heard a small moan from John's chair. He kept his eyes closed and slowly ran his tongue over his lips. _John's mouth on his cock, the hot wet suction making his head spin._ His hand reached inside his pyjamas, and he gasped as his fingers touched his straining cock. His unearthly eyes flew open at the sensation.

John was staring at him with an almost feral intensity, his jaw slack. Sherlock gave him a slow smile and returned to the task at hand.

His other hand stopped the relentless torture of his nipple and tugged at his pyjamas. It was impossible with one hand. He reluctantly pulled his other hand away from his cock to get them around his ankles. His erection sprung free, and he palmed it once more, the pressure spreading warmth throughout his groin. His eyes, still wide open, were locked onto John.

John was torn between watching the expression on Sherlock's face and watching the ridiculously hot show playing out before him, so he alternated between them.

Sherlock brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on his long, delicate fingers. Then, making sure John was watching, he slicked up his palm with his tongue. He sighed, almost inaudibly, and started to move his hand slowly along his length.

John was so very hard. It was all he could do not to touch himself.

Sherlock was lost in his memories as he stroked himself. _On his knees on the bed, John fucking him from behind. The smell of John's neck when he nibbled at his ear. John admiring his arse as he stood at the window in his corset. Watching John as he stepped naked from the shower in the morning. Pressing John up against that wall in the alleyway near last week's crime scene, taking him hard and fast before the others found them. Chasing criminals around London, running around like madmen. The time John had used the riding crop on him. The first time John had told him he loved him. Sucking John off in the hallway while the Met Christmas party raged a few feet away, the thrill of their potential discovery turning them both on. John's hideous, soft, wonderful jumpers. There were so many, many memories._ Despite his efforts to keep his eyes open, they closed involuntarily at the memories and the sensations coalescing in his groin. "John…" It escaped his lips as a low moan. "John… my love… my world."

John bit his lip, hard. "Come for me, love. Please."

Sherlock felt the world fall from beneath him as he came. The white hot pleasure tore through him like a ferret on meth. (It was for a case.)

"Christ, Sherlock. That was fucking incredible."

Sherlock tried to clear the thick fog of pleasure from his mind. He opened his eyes. John was looking at him in wonder. "I'm sorry. John."

"What on earth for?"

"I was going to try and give you more of a… show… I got lost in my memories. You've given me so many wonderful memories. How's your head, my love?"

"Starting to feel a little better, actually."

"Anything I can do to help?"

John followed Sherlock's gaze to his aching groin. He smiled. "Up here, Sherlock, my head is up here."

"Right. My previous query still stands."

John grinned and pulled off his shirt. He didn't care how he felt; he knew Sherlock would make him feel better.


	24. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft's day at the office.

  


Mycroft had to tear himself away from Greg's warm, sleeping body and drag himself to work. He'd been out of the country until last night, and he'd returned home to find Greg in his flat. (He'd given him the key weeks ago.) Greg had greeted him with a wonderful home-cooked Mediterranean chicken dish, and they'd devoured it. Then, they'd gone to bed and devoured each other. It had been a wonderful homecoming.

Now, though, it wasn't even light and he knew he had to get to work. He kissed Greg lightly on the forehead, telling himself he didn't want to wake him, but secretly hoping he would. He wanted just a few more seconds with him before facing what was sure to be a trying day. Greg opened his eyes, sleepily.

"Morning."

"Good morning gorgeous. I have to get to work. See you tonight, I hope?"

"Mmm. I'd love that. I hope your day goes well. Don't assassinate anyone I wouldn't."

Mycroft smiled at him fondly. He liked that Greg could appreciate the occasional absurdity of his job. "I wouldn't dream of it. Goodbye, love."

It wasn't until he was standing in the lift that he realised that was the first time he'd used the endearment. He panicked, just a little, and hoped perhaps Greg hadn't noticed. Then he realized he actually hoped Greg _had_ noticed but wasn't panicking about it like he was. Perhaps it was time to be a little more forthcoming with his feelings towards him.

Greg wasn't panicking about anything. He just lay in bed and smiled, unable to get back to sleep. _So, apparently they'd reached the unconscious endearment stage of their relationship._ He couldn't have been happier.

The driver was waiting for Mycroft outside. All the way to work, Mycroft considered whether he should text Greg and, what? Apologize? No, that didn't make sense. _I'm in love with Gregory Lestrade. I have been for weeks. But does he feel the same way?_ He huffed to himself. _I'm certainly not going to have this discussion via text message. Dinner. Perhaps another nice dinner at the club. Tonight._

The world had not stopped while Mycroft had been away. As he sat down at his desk, Anthea brought him a stack of folders at least two inches thick. "Morning, sir. I trust your trip went well?"

"Mm. Not bad for a regime change. Thank you, Anthea. Would you mind bringing me some tea? I think I'm going to be here a while."

"Of course, sir."

She returned ten minutes later with a tray containing tea and biscuits. Mycroft poured himself a cup, adding milk and sugar (one lump), and continued working his way through the folders. It was the standard paperwork, mostly just items requiring his signature. He opened the next one and nearly choked, spitting tea all over his desk. It contained surveillance images from the video feed outside Sherlock's flat. Sherlock was standing in front of the window, nude except for a rather lovely corset. It had been taken a couple of days ago.

Mycroft closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. Twice. Then, he opened his eyes and slowly removed a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned up the tea. He slowly closed the folder and placed it on his desk. He called Anthea on the intercom. "Could you come in for a moment, please?"

"Sir?"

"Who's on surveillance?"

"Byers, sir."

 _Byers, good._ "Very well. I'd like to speak with him."

"Of course, sir. I'll have him sent up."

A few minutes later, Byers came in, looking distinctly nervous.

"Good morning, Byers. Please take a seat."

"Thank you, sir."

"You don't have to look so nervous. You're not getting sacked. I want to talk to you about the surveillance on my brother's flat."

Byers looked slightly flushed. _This was worse than getting sacked._ "Sir?"

"Has anyone else seen the footage?"

"No, sir."

"I know we had all the internal devices removed from the flat quite some time ago. How many cameras are left outside?"

"Seven, sir. They're on the windows, the door, and pointing up and down Baker Street."

"In this instance and in the future, if my brother should choose to be indiscrete, I want all the footage delivered to me immediately, and then purged from the system. The missing footage will be chalked up to technical difficulties. I assume I have your full cooperation in this matter?"

"Of course, sir."

"That's all. Thank you, Byers."

"Thank you, sir."

Byers left the office quickly, trying not to show his relief. Very few people survived a trip to Mycroft Holmes' office with their job _and_ their composure intact.

"Anthea, please make sure Mr Byers receives a token of my appreciation for his discretion in this matter."

"Of course, sir." She'd never been sure if Sherlock did these things just to annoy Mycroft, or if he could truly care less. She suspected it was a little of both.

Mycroft made himself another cup of tea and sat quietly at his desk. He flipped the folder open, glanced at it, and quickly closed it once again. It wasn't that he had a problem with Sherlock wearing the corset – quite the opposite – he looked stunning in it. The problem was the security footage of it. This, he had to admit, was mostly his fault. He'd insisted that the outside surveillance be left in place, even though they'd removed the devices in the flat. With Moriarty still on the loose, there was no room for compromise on this.

He texted Sherlock.

 _Your new outfit is lovely. I didn't realise you had an interest in exhibitionism. MH_

 _Oh dear, did I upset one of your minions? SH_

 _Not at all. I just thought I would suggest an additional venue for your experiments. MH_

 _One of your little clubs? SH_

 _Precisely. If you and John are interested, I'll make the arrangements. MH_

Mycroft flipped open the folder once more, allowed himself a final lingering gaze, and then he locked it in his desk. _Okay, that's quite enough of that._ He went back to signing paperwork and sipping at his tea. It was going to be a long day.

Greg hauled himself out of bed at a reasonable hour and indulged in a long shower at Mycroft's flat. He'd been glowing ever since Mycroft had called him "love" this morning. They'd been dating for quite some time now, but they'd both been careful about their use of endearments. Greg assumed it was because Mycroft hadn't felt the same way he did. It seemed he'd been rather wonderfully wrong about that.

He arrived at the Yard in an abnormally cheerful mood. Sally looked at him with suspicion as he passed her. "What's with you?"

"Nothing, why?"

She scowled at him and went about her business.

Greg hummed as he flew through his paperwork. She stormed into his office a couple hours later. "No, really. What the fucking hell? I've never seen you like this. You're just so goddamned… cheerful. Did you get laid or something?"

Greg had been doing a pretty good job of keeping his relationship with Mycroft a secret from his colleagues, but the incident this morning had apparently been a bit too much for his armour of indifference. _Sally's no Sherlock – I must be bleeding obvious._ "It's really none of your business if I did, Sally. But yes, I had a lovely evening, thank you. Now get out."

Sally's jaw hit the floor.

"Oh come on now, is it really so hard to believe? And really, get out. I have work to do."

He stared at her until she left, still in a bit of a daze.

As soon as the door closed, he chuckled to himself. _Yes, Mycroft was definitely good for him._

He texted Mycroft.

 _So, dinner? GL_

 _Wild terrorist cells couldn't keep me from you. Pick you up at six from the Yard? MH_

Greg actually laughed out loud. _Wild terrorist cells?_ The poetic side of Mycroft Holmes.

 _I can't wait. You make me laugh, Mycroft Holmes. Thanks for that. GL_

Sitting at his desk, Mycroft smiled. He placed a phone call to his club and arranged dinner. He usually let Anthea handle most things, but he wanted to handle this himself. He grabbed his brolly, left the high-security confines of his office and walked to the corner shop. He'd been hoping for some nice flowers. Unfortunately, his choices seemed more along the lines of the Financial Times or packets of crisps. He eventually settled on a box of Cadbury Roses chocolates. He thought Greg might appreciate the humour. He hoped Greg liked chocolates, and felt bad that he didn't already know if that was the case.

Anthea raised an eyebrow when he walked back in. "You didn't take the car. There's a reason it's bulletproof."

Mycroft shot her an exasperated look. "I had my brolly."

"National security?"

"Something like that."

"National security chocolates?" She could see them through the plastic carrier bag. Mycroft raised one of his eyebrows, and shot her another look. "Sorry, sir." She looked away. She could get away with a lot, but she knew not to push her luck.

When Mycroft showed up at the Yard, Greg was waiting for him. Mycroft opened the door. "Hello, Gregory." Greg got into the car, and Mycroft gave him the box of chocolates.

"I wanted to get you roses, but this was the best I could do. Apparently corner shops are not a reliable source for floral arrangements."

Greg leaned over and kissed him. "These are wonderful, love. Thank you."

The smile on Mycroft's face could have powered a small city.


	25. Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pushes John a bit too far and learns something about himself in the process.

  


"Phone."

John was working on his blog in the other room, and turned to look at Sherlock in the kitchen. "What?"

"Phone. I need my phone."

"Where is it?"

"How should I know? Hurry up."

John sighed and glanced around the flat. He _really_ wasn't up for this right now. "I don't see it, Sherlock."

"Well then, get up and look for it." Sherlock was still peering into the microscope on the kitchen table. He couldn't see the irritated look on John's face, but there was no way he could miss it when John spoke.

"I'm. Busy. Get it yourself."

Sherlock didn't move from the microscope. "John. Phone. I need my phone. Now."

Seconds later, Sherlock was extremely surprised to find his right arm twisted painfully behind his back and pulled up between his shoulders. He hadn't even heard John get up. He couldn't move in this position - John had effectively immobilised him. "John… There's no need…"

John interrupted him, his voice calm, like steel clad in velvet. "I disagree. There's every need. You are being a complete prat. I am _not_ your errand boy. You will _not_ order me around like one." John paused, clearly waiting for a response.

Sherlock huffed. "I just asked for my phone."

"No… You interrupted what I was doing, and you rudely told me to go and find your phone. I'd like an apology."

"Then I suppose you'll be here a while."

John bent his head close to Sherlock's ear and pulled his wrist slightly higher on his back. He knew it was uncomfortable. That was the point. "Perhaps I'll just fuck the apology out of you."

Sherlock stopped breathing.

John waited. Silence. John grabbed Sherlock's other hand, pinned it behind him, and had him out of the chair in one fluid move. He practically pushed him into the front room and shoved him roughly up against the wall, pinning him to it with his body. His military training often proved to be useful, but this was the first time he'd used it on Sherlock. He had no intention of hurting him, but he did want to make an impression. He was _not_ going to stand for this any longer. It was absurd. He could feel Sherlock breathing heavily under him. He honestly didn't know if it was from surprise and fear, or from arousal.

Sherlock sneered. "Perhaps you should."

He honestly wasn't sure if Sherlock was being sarcastic or not. Usually, he would have assumed sarcasm, but Sherlock was still breathing heavily. _Odd._ It was so hard to tell sometimes. Well, there was one way to find out. Keeping him pressed against the wall, he grabbed both Sherlock's wrists in one hand. Using his free hand, he rather clinically reached around and palmed his groin. Sherlock flinched at the contact. _Ah. Not sarcasm then._ Sherlock was already mostly hard. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop."

Silence.

"I'm not kidding. I _will_ fuck that apology out of you, and it will _not_ be gentle."

More deafening silence. John smiled to himself. _Well, then. Sherlock had a safeword. Time to see if he'd use it._ He released Sherlock's hands and pulled him around to face him. _Ah, yes. Now it was unmistakable. Pupils blown, still breathing heavily through that gorgeous mouth of his. Time to put that to better use._ "On your knees." He pushed him, somewhat roughly, to the floor.

Sherlock looked up at him through long lashes. His face was an odd mixture of defiance and lust. He held John's gaze as he licked his lips in a slow tease.

John made sure he sounded unimpressed. "Get on with it. This is all the lube you're getting."

Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise. He quickly started working on John's belt with fumbling fingers, hoping John didn't change his mind and decide to just get on with it, himself.

John tried not to crack a smile. He might be irritated, but even Sherlock should know he wouldn't fuck him completely dry. _Apparently, I can be intimidating when I want to be, because he does seem to think that._ Sherlock had John's trousers around his ankles, his pants off, and his cock in his mouth in record time. _That's more like it._ He looked down at Sherlock, eagerly sucking, trying to get his entire length in his mouth. His eyes were closed now. All traces of his earlier teasing were gone and replaced with a desperate desire to please – or perhaps just to provide himself with adequate lubrication. Either way, John was fine with that. He stripped off his jumper and stepped out of his trousers and pants. The movement caught Sherlock by surprise, and he shuffled along the floor on his knees, eager to keep John's cock in his mouth.

Sherlock seemed to be relaxing into it, sucking expertly on John's cock. _That won't do at all._ He grabbed the back of Sherlock's head and fisted his dark curls. Sherlock's eyes shot open and darted up at him. John smiled, serenely, and started fucking his face with abandon.

Sherlock tried to regain control of the situation, but the hand on the back of his head just pulled him in closer as John thrust his hips forward. _Don't gag. Breathe through your nose._ That almost worked, but then John's cock was so far down his throat that he couldn't breathe through his nose either. John's cock pounded relentlessly against the back of his throat, and it was all he could do to hold himself together. His own cock was throbbing like he hadn't come in months, and his increasingly oxygen-starved brain started to go fuzzy around the edges.

John fisted Sherlock's hair more tightly and kept up his assault on Sherlock's mouth. He knew Sherlock couldn't breathe like this. He was a doctor. Of course he knew. He also knew _exactly_ how long he could keep this up before Sherlock _needed_ to breathe.

When he pulled Sherlock off his cock, Sherlock gasped for air. The rush of oxygen to Sherlock's brain would make everything bright and sharp. He tugged his hair and forced Sherlock's head back to look up at him. Sherlock's eyes were wide open now, his mouth still open and gasping. Those gorgeous lips were red and swollen and looked absolutely perfect. John pulled him up by his hair and kissed him, hard, his tongue invading Sherlock's mouth and owning it in the same way his cock had previously. He let go of Sherlock's dark curls and stepped back, trying to keep a mask of impassivity over his features. "Strip."

Sherlock hastily shed his clothes, almost tripping when he pulled off his trousers. _Oh god, I'm shamefully hard_. _I don't think I'm supposed to be enjoying this quite as much as I am._ He pulled off his pants, his hard cock bouncing against his stomach. He tried to pretend he wasn't standing there with a raging hard-on. It didn't work.

John pulled him close and whispered quietly in his ear, the trace of steel still in his voice. "You're getting off on this, aren't you?"

Sherlock stood there and didn't reply.

"Aren't you." John hissed. It wasn't really a question.

Sherlock nodded. There was no point in denying the glaringly obvious, hard against his stomach. "Yes."

"Tell me why."

"I… I don't know."

"You're a genius. Figure it out."

There was a long pause and then a gratifying flood of words. "I like being punished, the submission, being used for your pleasure. I'm sorry. I was being a prat earlier. I'm sorry."

"Very good. Now, hands, high on the wall, legs apart."

Sherlock's head whipped around. "What?" He'd been punished. He'd apologized. _What the hell?_

"I told you I was going to fuck the apology out of you. Just because you apologized before I got the chance doesn't mean I'm not going to fuck another apology out of you. You were being a complete arse. I think you need to learn a few more manners - be more like your brother."

Sherlock stiffened at the mention of Mycroft. _Hit a nerve there._ "Hands on the wall. Don't make me tell you again."

Sherlock hastily complied.

John pressed up against him, allowing his cock to press shamelessly into the cleft of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock moaned. John grabbed Sherlock's hair and slowly pulled his head down and to the side so he could whisper in his ear. "I saw your face when he spanked you at the hotel. Honestly. You hadn't figured out you get off on this before? Or was it just because it was Mycroft?"

Silence.

 _Tread carefully. You know this is thin ice._ "It's alright, you know. I don't mind. But I think you should consider that perhaps it wasn't _just_ because it was Mycroft. Remember when I fucked you, bent over the bed at Greg's flat?" _I don't know if he's deleted that, but there's no fucking way_ I'll _ever forget it. The first time I fucked him – the first time any of us fucked him. Bloody hell. And he's only now connecting the submissive dots? Really? For a genius, he's bloody thick sometimes._

Sherlock nodded his head. It would have been almost imperceptible if John's hand hadn't been fisted in his hair.

That was good enough for John. _I'll let him think about that while I fuck him through the wall._

There was a pause. Sherlock, thankfully, was too preoccupied with John's earlier comments to notice. _Oh dear god. This isn't going to work. He's too tall. You can't fuck him through the wall in this position._ He kicked Sherlock's feet wider and grabbed his waist, pulling Sherlock towards him. Sherlock's hands grasped uselessly at the wall as they slid down. _That's better._ John grabbed Sherlock's hips, hard enough to leave bruises on that lovely, pale skin, and rubbed his cock lewdly against the cleft of Sherlock's arse again. He was still slick from the thorough going-over Sherlock had just given him. Honestly, he was achingly hard himself, and there was more than a little pre-come slicking things up a bit as well, but he wasn't about to tell Sherlock that. His irritation had long since dissipated, but it was clear they were both into this, and he had no intention of backing down from his promise.

He took one hand off Sherlock's hips, lined himself up against his entrance, and pressed slowly but firmly into him. _Fuck, he's tight._ Normally there was lube, and lots of it. And foreplay. An inkling of regret started to form in John's head. Then, with a slight pop, the head of his cock was inside him, and Sherlock let out a low, guttural moan of pleasure. The regret evaporated, and John started to work his way in and out of Sherlock's arse, a fraction of an inch at a time.

Sherlock's thoughts abruptly left the earlier discussion, and focused on the large head of John's cock pushing into his arse.

 _So tight, bloody hell_. _He's going to feel this for a while. Then again, isn't that part of the point? No, not really. Not anymore. Now it's about Sherlock getting a submissive clue. Jesus, the riding crop thing as well. Really? Isn't it obvious?_ John mentally stepped back a bit, and realised it wasn't. _I've been doing this for years. Sub, dom, switch, vanilla, pain play – I don't even have to think about what they mean, they're just part of my vocabulary. Sherlock had never even heard of d/s before we started our 'experiments.'_ _I saw him getting spanked by Mycroft as an obviously submissive act, but he just saw it as a way to interact with his brother. The riding crop thing was probably an experiment with pain, not submission. All the bondage, the corset – more unrelated experiments? And he really never made the submissive connection? Holy fucking hell. I had no intention of this becoming a "guess what, you're a switch" fuck. I really have to talk to him about this later. Sometime when I'm_ not _fucking him shoved up against the wall with no real lube._ He mentally face-palmed. _At least he seems to be enjoying it._

John was good at multitasking. It was part of the reason he was such a good doctor. He could triage multiple patients while stopping someone else from bleeding out. He carried on this conversation with himself while fucking his partner slowly and expertly until Sherlock was ready enough to take him harder. Sherlock? One blazingly fast train of thought, but only one track - can't multitask for shit. So while John had been off having this little revelation about Sherlock's complete cluelessness towards his submissive tendencies, Sherlock's brain had been more along the lines of "Fuck. So fucking full. Ngghhhh…" And so forth.

It had taken an age, but John was finally buried balls-deep inside Sherlock. John paused. They both needed a break. There was a good reason there was a thriving lube industry. This was hard work.

"I'm so sorry, love. I really was being a complete prat. I wanted to see how far I could push you before you'd get upset with me. It was sort of an experiment. "

John _really_ hadn't seen that one coming. "What?"

"And then, well, then you _did_ get upset, and the whole thing was just unaccountably hot, and I didn't even know why. But now I think I do."

John was overcome by emotion. He grabbed Sherlock around his chest and pulled him close. Sherlock let out a small moan as John's cock slid out of him a little due to the height difference. John buried his face in Sherlock's neck. "Fuck, I love you. You're a complete idiot sometimes, but I really do love you." John carefully pulled out of Sherlock and turned him around so he could see his face.

"I love you too, John. I'm sorry I provoked you like that. I really am."

"Look, I get your need to experiment. I do. But this shit has got to be consensual. If you hadn't been aroused when I pushed you up against that wall, I would have gone off down the pub for a pint and got it out of my system. But you were, so I figured this was fair game and you would use your safeword if you had to. But you can't play with people's heads like that. Not even stupid people like Anderson." John paused. "Well, maybe Anderson. But _really_ not with people you care about. Really. That's part of the reason you and Mycroft have been at each other's throats for so long. It's not all a game to be won, or an experiment to be conducted. I know it's not nearly as much fun, but you could just try asking me, 'John, how much can I irritate you before you go off to the pub in a huff?' Okay, perhaps that's not the best example, but do you get my point?"

Sherlock looked at John with an expression of utter sadness on his face, and it nearly broke John's heart. John pulled him back into a hug and murmured into his chest. "It's alright. It's alright. Just talk to me about this shit instead, okay? And don't do it again."

"Yes, John."

 _That breathy whisper again. The one that just cuts me in half, every fucking time. Bloody hell, does he even know what that does to me? I honestly don't think he does._

Sherlock didn't. The deductive genius noticed many things, but this was not one of them. They just held each other for a while, trying to get back on a sound emotional footing. Then John started nuzzling Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock started making breathy little moans. John was the one to break the silence.

"You know, we have lube upstairs. I'd still like to fuck you senseless at some point this evening, you know."

Sherlock beamed at him, and they both headed upstairs to the bedroom.

Later, in a post-coital haze, their bodies tangled on the bed, Sherlock turned to John with a slightly evil grin on his face. "So, if I get off on punishment, there's not much point in _actually_ punishing me, is there?"

It was John's turn for one of his Patented Evil Grins. "Sorry, love. I'll just withhold sex. I'd talk to Mycroft and Greg. I'm sure I'd be able to work out something with them until you came around."

Sherlock looked disappointed. "Oh. Right."

John smiled at him. "But if you're really, really good, I'm sure I could convince Mycroft to punish you as well. Perhaps a joint effort. I'm sure, between the two of us, we could do a wonderful job of punishing you."

Sherlock smirked, and started kissing his lover passionately. When he finally came up for air, he said one word. "Promise?"


	26. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets some lessons in pain.

  


Mycroft and Greg were both looking forward to a relaxing dinner. They exchanged a languid kiss and settled back into the plush black leather seats of the car.

"How'd it go, My?"

Mycroft huffed, a small smile on his face. "John bought Sherlock a corset."

"Do I even _want_ to know how you know that?"

"CCTV footage showed up on my desk this morning - from _outside_ the flat, of course. I did remove all the surveillance inside."

Greg smiled. He let the mental image of Sherlock wearing a corset take a well-postured stroll around his brain for a few seconds.

"Yes, exactly."

 _Oops. Caught._ Greg blushed. "Sorry."

"No need to apologise. I didn't exactly purge it from my memory…" He trailed off, and a tinge of colour showed in his cheeks.

Greg tilted his head, questioningly.

"I was…" Mycroft took a deep breath. "I was considering asking them…" He sighed and looked away. "Nothing."

Greg's mind raced. _He's either talking about borrowing it or having Sherlock model it for us. Either way, fuck yes._ "I don't know how you were going to end that sentence, but neither of those is a bad thing."

"Wait. What? What's the other thing?"

"I figure you either want Sherlock to model it for us, or you want to borrow it. I know this is a bit toppish on my part, but I think you'd look fucking gorgeous in a corset. Me, not so much." He gestured to his body, much sturdier than Mycroft's elegant frame.

Mycroft swallowed. He mostly topped these days, but the idea of being laced into a corset went straight to his cock. "If we did that, I'd just buy one; we needn't borrow it. I'd been thinking of the other option."

"Perhaps we should do both." Greg smirked.

Mycroft still looked a bit nervous.

"Look, I'll keep telling you until you believe me – the thing between you and Sherlock is not a problem. It really isn't."

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Thank you, Gregory."

"So does this mean I get to see you in a corset sometime?" Greg raised an eyebrow and gave him a playful smirk.

Mycroft's worried features eased into a genuine smile. "Yes, it does. We should go together and purchase it. I'd want to be certain it was to your taste, as well."

"It's a date."

"Let me make a few arrangements." He got out his phone and called Anthea. "Could you do some research for me? Corsets. London, preferably. Although…" Tomorrow was Saturday. He looked at Greg. "Are you busy tomorrow?" Greg shook his head. "Never mind, make that Paris. Yes, have the jet on standby for midmorning. Thank you, my dear."

Greg's eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline. "You must be joking."

Mycroft looked puzzled.

"Paris. On a private jet. To buy a corset. None of that strikes you as, oh, I don't know… odd?"

"I've never bought a corset before, but other than that, no. Not particularly."

"Won't you get all kinds of hell for taking a government jet to Paris for the weekend?"

"What?" Mycroft looked a little puzzled. "Of course not, it's not a government jet."

Greg's brain tripped over itself and landed on its face. "Right…"

Mycroft suddenly got a faint clue and looked at Greg with concern. "Oh, Gregory… I'm sorry. I sometimes forget that I have…" He searched for the word. "Excessive… resources at my disposal."

Greg just shook his head and smiled faintly. "No, it's all good. I'm just a bit out of my depth, is all."

"We can just go to one in London if that would be better."

"You're fucking kidding right? I've never even _been_ to Paris. Of course I want to go." Greg laughed and shook his head, not really believing he was having this conversation.

"Well then, as you said, it's a date."

"So, um… How was the rest of your day?" He smiled sheepishly. _Perhaps I should be more careful when I ask these questions. My weekend just went from reheated pizza to Paris on a private jet with the last question._

"Uneventful." He smiled. "Seeing you has been the highlight of my day, Gregory. I booked us dinner at the club. Is that acceptable?"

Greg smiled. "Of course it is, My. We could get fish and chips, and I'd be happy."

Greg reached over and entwined his fingers with Mycroft's, moving closer to him so that their bodies touched.

Tension eased out of his body. He sighed contentedly and leaned back into Greg. "Thank you, love."

Greg turned his head to look at him, quizzically. "For what?"

"For you. For this. For how happy you make me." He leaned his head on Greg's shoulder and relaxed.

Greg rested his head on Mycroft's. "Yeah, me too."

The rest of the ride to the club passed in a warm, companionable silence.

Their sleek car pulled up outside the club.

"Ah, this brings back memories of my first kidnapping," Greg said with a grin.

Mycroft flushed. "Um, sorry."

Greg just beamed at him and gave him a quick kiss. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."

They made their way back to one of the private rooms. There were menus this time. Not that it really mattered – they both ended up ordering the steak again.

"So… Um."

"Yes, Gregory?"

"Well, I don't know if this a good time to bring it up, but there's something I'd like to try."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Of course. Go on."

Greg fidgeted. "Um. Well, I'd like to do some more stuff with pain. I've done a little on my own…" He trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

Mycroft reached over and grasped Greg's fidgeting hands with his own. He gave him a warm smile. "Oh, Gregory." His voice was lower than usual. "I'd like that _very_ much."

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. "When Sherlock used the riding crop on me that day, I enjoyed it, but it got a bit overwhelming and I couldn't take much. But I think I could if I worked up to it."

Mycroft closed his eyes and moistened his lips to try and regain his composure. It was all he could do not to leap across the table and take Greg right there. _Breathe._ He realized he'd been silent for longer than was proper. He opened his eyes to find Greg looking at him, slightly puzzled. "I apologise. You have no idea what that does to me."

"I think I'm starting to. It does that to me, too."

"Oh dear lord." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and breathed deeply. "I feel like a hormonal schoolboy when I'm around you, Gregory."

Greg grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Mycroft looked up at him through long lashes, undisguised lust on his face. "No, it most certainly isn't. I'm just trying to come up with a good reason why I shouldn't fuck you senseless _before_ we have dinner, as well as after."

Greg could always determine Mycroft's level of arousal by the change in his vocabulary. "We'd have to be quick – the steak won't take long to cook." He was getting hard just thinking about it.

"I could call the kitchen…"

"No, the thought of having someone walk in on us…" Greg didn't have to finish the sentence. Mycroft was there, dragging him from his seat and pushing him up against the wall. Their mouths met in a hard clash of teeth and tongues. Mycroft's hand pressed firmly against his erection, and Greg let out a loud moan. He realised where he was. "Sorry," he mumbled around the kiss.

Mycroft drew back slightly so he could reply. "S'okay. Soundproof." He resumed his assault on Greg's mouth, using his hands to undo Greg's trousers.

Greg reached down to rub on Mycroft's cock. Mycroft groaned into the kiss in response.

Mycroft pushed Greg's hand away and started working on removing his own trousers, cursing his sudden lack of dexterity.

Greg pulled down his pants, freeing his cock. He pulled back from the kiss and dropped to his knees, helping Mycroft with his trousers and pants. The sooner he could get his mouth on Mycroft's cock, the better.

The sudden hot, wet contact of Greg's mouth made Mycroft hiss. "Oh. Ohhh." His hips bucked involuntarily, forcing his cock further into Greg's mouth. A white fuzz enveloped his brain. _Ngghhhh. No time. Focus._ He pulled Greg off his achingly hard cock and looked down at him, his pupils blown with lust. "I want you bent over the arm of the sofa, hands behind your back." Mycroft grabbed a small sachet of lube from the inside pocket of his suit.

All coherent thoughts fled from Greg's brain. He hurried over to the sofa, bending over it. He used his hands to position his upper chest over the armrest and then put them behind his back, clasping his wrists together. He spread his legs, his hard cock swaying between them. The position made it a little hard to breathe. His naked arse was in the air. He felt exposed and it was glorious. It made his blood sing.

For just a second, Mycroft took in the view. "Oh, Gregory…" His voice so low, it was almost a sigh. He moved behind him, one hand grabbing Greg's clasped wrists, the other guiding his cock between Greg's deliciously spread arse. He pressed into him, both of them groaning at the hot tightness of it.

 _Two steaks, medium rare._

Mycroft drew his cock out almost all the way. Then he used Greg's hands as leverage as he thrust back in, pulling Greg onto his cock, impaling him.

 _Two salads._

Greg moaned and tilted his hips to give Mycroft a better position.

 _A bottle of wine._

Mycroft pounded into Greg with an intensity neither of them had quite been expecting.

 _Any minute now, certainly._

Mycroft grabbed Greg's cock and expertly brought him off as he came deep inside him.

They gave themselves a couple seconds to recover. Mycroft placed his hand on the small of Greg's back. "Stay there." He went over to the wood-panelled wall and opened an almost invisible cupboard. He removed some small towels and went back, cleaning them both up. Mycroft deposited the towels discretely behind the sofa.

Greg looked at him. "Where…?"

Mycroft smiled. "Get dressed, there's not much time."

Just seconds after they'd tucked their shirts back in, there was a soft knock on the door. Greg smiled at Mycroft. "Nicely done."

"Come in." There was a faint trace of amusement in his voice and on his features.

They sat at the table. The young man who wheeled in their exquisitely prepared meal barely glanced at them. He most certainly didn't acknowledge their flushed cheeks, blown pupils, and slightly swollen lips. His job was not to serve meals, it was to be discrete. He did his job spectacularly well. He knew who Mycroft was, of course. He remembered the other man from his previous visit. He smiled to himself. Things had clearly progressed. He knew Mycroft's manner well enough to realize that this man was no casual encounter. There was genuine affection here. It was nice to see him relaxed for a change. He poured their wine and wheeled the trolley out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Seconds later, both Mycroft and Greg erupted in a fit of giggling.

"That was the best quick fuck I've ever had. Thanks, My."

Mycroft's giggles turned into outright laughter. "Thank _you_ , Gregory."

Greg looked at him a bit wistfully. "You should do that more often."

"What?"

"Laugh. It looks good on you. I've seen you smirk, I've seen you giggle, but I don't think I've ever seen you laugh. You laugh with your whole body, not just your face. It's beautiful."

Mycroft bit his bottom lip and chewed on it, nervously.

"Gregory, there's something I need to tell you."

Panic gripped Greg, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Yes?"

"I love you, Gregory. I have for weeks. You're everything to me. You make me so happy." The politician with nerves of steel felt his eyes getting moist.

"Oh god, My. I love you, too." Greg got out of his chair and pulled Mycroft into a hug. They held each other tightly for a long time.

Mycroft's voice was shaky. "You're still not going to run screaming then? Because that was the last thing in my arsenal."

"No. You're stuck with me."

"Thank you, Gregory. I can't tell you how much you mean to me."

"You already have, My. I really do love you too, you know. I can't imagine my life without you. I just didn't know if you wanted… this."

"More than anything."

"Yeah, me too." He untangled himself from Mycroft and gazed at him with a smile. "C'mon, let's eat before this gets cold."

Later, they made their way back to the sleek black car that seemed to know Mycroft's every move. Greg idly wondered if Mycroft had been fitted with a locator beacon as part of his job. It would explain a lot. They rode through the wet, glistening streets of London, sinking into the soft leather seats in a post food, post sex haze.

"Gregory?"

"Hm?"

"I know this is a bit forward, but if you'd like to stay at my flat on a more regular basis…"

"You're a nutter, My. Of course I'd like that."

"Only if you want to – you shouldn't feel obligated."

Greg kissed him, and mumbled into the kiss, "Shut up, My." Greg couldn't believe one of the world's most powerful men was so insecure when it came to emotional matters.

Back at the flat, Mycroft asked, "Coffee or Scotch?"

"That depends. Are you up for teaching me a thing or two about pain tonight?"

"Coffee it is."

Mycroft expertly fiddled with the expensive coffee machine and produced two steaming cups of the dark brew. "You know, I have no idea how you like your coffee."

"Well, I usually take it black with sugar, but that's just because they never have milk at the Yard and I can't stand that powder. I'm assuming you have milk?"

"Cream, even."

"Well, then. Cream and one sugar, thanks."

Mycroft smiled and prepared his the same way. They sat and sipped their coffee in silence for a bit, looking out at the lights of London.

Comfortable silence turned into languid kissing, which turned into slightly more frenzied kissing as their bodies responded for the second time that evening.

"Would you like to learn about pain, Gregory?" There was a note of formality back in his voice.

"Yes, sir." _God, just that voice made him hard, made him want to get on his knees._

Mycroft got up and took Greg's hand.

Greg followed him down the hallway. He'd been expecting to go to the playroom, but he was surprised when Mycroft led him to the bedroom instead.

Mycroft noticed the look on his face, and smiled at him, knowingly. He ran his hand gently down Greg's cheek. When he got to Greg's neck, he used his fingernails to scrape roughly across his neck and up the back of his scalp, finally fisting Greg's hair and pulling his head sharply backwards.

Greg gasped, shocked and aroused by the sensations this sent through his body.

Mycroft lowered his head to Greg's exposed neck and scraped his teeth over it. With his head still pulled back, he started leaving playful bites along his neck and jawline. Greg was breathing heavily.

"Lesson one. You don't have to be in a playroom. Pain can be just as much fun in vanilla sex." He pulled Greg back in for a bruising kiss.

He undid the buttons on Greg's shirt, pulled open the shirt, and tweaked his nipple, hard. Greg grimaced. "That hurt, didn't it?"

"Um, yeah."

"Nothing particularly sexual about it, was there?"

"Not really, no."

"Good. I'm actually making a point here. You'll see later."

He moved his mouth to Greg's nipple, teasing it and sucking on it gently. Greg soon forgot the sharp pain and relaxed back into Mycroft's ministrations. "Let me undress you, love."

Greg stood there as Mycroft's hands and mouth moved over his body, undressing and caressing him at the same time. He jumped when he felt Mycroft's tongue flick over the head of his cock. "I thought this was about pain…"

"I'm not done yet."

There was that sensation at the pit of his stomach again. He knew this was _supposed_ to be vanilla sex, but when Mycroft used that voice…

Mycroft started removing his own clothes. Greg tried to help but Mycroft stopped him. "No, just watch. On your knees, if you'd like."

It wasn't a command, but Greg happily obliged. He _wanted_ to kneel in front of Mycroft. He didn't care if this wasn't the playroom.

Mycroft couldn't resist teasing him – making him wait. He knew the wait would be worth it. He wanted this to be the opposite of their quick tryst earlier. He neatly folded his clothes and placed them on the chair. He looked at Greg, kneeling before him, already hard. _How the hell did I get this lucky? I can't believe he loves me. I can't believe he puts up with my kinks and my fucked up relationship with Sherlock. I can't believe he makes me this happy._ He had to bite the inside of his lip again to stop himself from becoming too emotional. He knelt down in front of Greg, cupped his face with his hands, and kissed him slowly and gently. He ran his fingers over Greg's lower lip. Greg's tongue slid out, curling around them. A small sigh escaped Mycroft's lips. "Okay, up on the bed, hands and knees."

Greg got on the bed, making sure there was plenty of room for Mycroft as well. He felt Mycroft behind him. Then he felt the whisper-light touch of fingernails on his back, tracing patterns in his tanned skin. That was it. It seemed like an eternity. Part of him just wanted Mycroft to get on with it, but he suspected that wasn't the point. Once he realised this, some of the tension left his body and he let himself just enjoy it.

"There you go. Enjoy it for what it is. Sensation is not just a means to an end."

He felt his arse cheeks being spread and suddenly Mycroft's tongue was there, hot and wet at his entrance. He gasped.

Mycroft proceeded to drive Greg out of his mind. His hands gripped Greg's hips, giving him leverage, but he made sure not to touch his cock. As he thrust his tongue inside Greg, he could feel, as much as hear, Greg moan.

Greg started to get lost in the pleasure. "Oh fuck. God, more… please."

"Patience." His tongue went back to its ceaseless teasing, and Greg went back to moaning. "Perhaps I need to gag you."

"Oh fuck, yes. Um, yes, sir. Please."

Mycroft smiled. He knew this wasn't easy for Greg. He reached over to the bedside table and pulled out the large silicone butt plug that he only used as a gag. "Open."

Greg's eyes widened at the size of the toy and opened his mouth as wide as he could. It barely fit inside his mouth, but the tapered base allowed him to close his mouth around it and still breathe through his nose. It forced his jaw open, just like sucking on a cock. He remembered the dildo sitting in his bedside table in his flat. _God, it seems like so long ago now. So ironic, really. I bought it because I thought I'd never get lucky again, and the past months have been filled with nothing but sex._ Mycroft's tongue was back in his arse, and then Mycroft's hand was on his cock. He groaned around the gag. Suddenly, the tongue was gone, and replaced with two lubed fingers, the other hand now expertly stroking his cock. It was complete sensory overload. His mouth was full, his arse was full, and the hand on his cock was getting him perilously close to coming.

And then, Mycroft stopped. He wasn't even touching Greg.

Greg howled, well, as best he could, around the gag. His cock was aching. He was so close - all he needed was a little more.

"Lesson two. Pleasure can be painful."

 _Okay, yeah, fuck. I get that._

"Open." Mycroft gently removed the gag from Greg's mouth. "Are you okay?"

An unintelligible stream of vowels surprised both Greg and Mycroft. Greg's eyes went wide. He tried again. This sounded a little more intelligible. "I on't ink my aw irks." He flexed his jaw and laughed a little. "I don't… think… my jaw… works."

Mycroft smiled. "Sorry, that happens sometimes. Better now?"

"Yeah, thanks." Greg was still unconsciously flexing his jaw. Mycroft crawled in front of him and massaged his jaw with warm hands.

"Alright, now we get to the fun one. I apologise for the abrupt ending just now. Again, making a point…"

"Mmm."

Mycroft ran his hands down Greg's body. "Come here." Mycroft reclined on the bed, pulling Greg back with him. "Perhaps you should work on me a little."

Greg thought that was a fabulous idea, and started rubbing his body lasciviously against Mycroft, moving down to take his length into his wet mouth. This time, it was Mycroft who let out the obscenely loud moan. "Fuck…"

Greg loved it when Mycroft swore. He so rarely lost control. He swirled his tongue around the head of Mycroft's cock. "C'mon Mycroft, I wanna hear you swear." He took him deep in his throat again, rubbing his hand under his balls.

"No."

He could hear the pout in Mycroft's voice. _Well, you can tell they're brothers._ He laughed."Don't worry, you don't have to. Let's just say it's one of my personal goals." He heard a low chuckle from Mycroft.

"You're not the only one with goals."

"Oh?"

"Oh, Gregory. There's a reason I took that gag out. I'm going to make you come so hard you scream. And I want to hear it."

Greg wasn't sure, but he thought that might be the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to him. His cock certainly thought it was. He wasn't sure if it was words, or the tone in which he'd said them, or both. He just looked at Mycroft with something approaching awe.

"Come here, you gorgeous thing." Mycroft grabbed the lube from the bedside table and handed it to Greg.

Not needing any prompting, Greg got some out and started warming it between his hands. He used both hands to rub it generously over Mycroft's hard cock.

"Alright. Now I want you to face away from me, and impale yourself on my cock."

 _Oh, fuck. Yes, I can do that._ He knelt astride Mycroft, his legs braced against his midsection. He grabbed Mycroft's now very slick cock, and tried to position himself over it. _Perhaps I overdid it a bit with the lube._ Eventually, he got himself lined up, and slowly started to lower himself onto Mycroft's cock. His legs tensed as they controlled his descent. He'd never done this position before. Mycroft was already well-endowed, but in this position, he felt fucking huge.

"Breathe, Gregory."

 _Right. Yoga for anal sex. Breathe._ He did, and he could feel himself relax. He allowed himself to go deeper. _Holy hell._ He felt Mycroft's hands on his hips, steadying him. He closed his eyes and felt himself relax further. Then he could feel Mycroft's soft curls against his arse. _Fuck._ One more push and he was completely impaled on Mycroft's cock. Both of them were breathing hard now. _Ah, My. Even you're not completely impassive now, are you?_ Greg smiled, and was suddenly rather glad Mycroft couldn't see his face. He started to move slowly up and down. What had seemed impossible only moments before became a glorious rush of sensation and pleasure. Greg started to lose himself in it when he heard Mycroft speak again.

"Alright, now lean back towards me."

 _Is that even possible? Perhaps I should start taking yoga._ He leaned back, his body arching as he braced himself with his arms up by Mycroft's shoulders. There was a fierce stretch in the front of his ankles, but this position did make it easier for him to thrust his hips against Mycroft. Each thrust earned him a satisfying sigh for his trouble. That was more than worth it.

Mycroft waited until Greg started to think he was in control. Then, he reached up with one hand and grabbed Greg's cock. Greg shuddered and made a very satisfying noise that seemed to emanate from his chest. With his other hand, Mycroft started to gently pinch one of Greg's nipples. He increased the pressure slowly, knowing that it would hurt more when he released it and the blood rushed back. When he released it, and heard Greg groan, he started the next part of his assault. With his fingers spread, he raked his fingernails from Greg's cock, up over his stomach and then to his tortured nipple, leaving four red lines in his wake. His other hand kept up just enough pressure on Greg's cock to make sure he didn't actually come.

"God, My. Nnnnghhh."

Mycroft flicked at Greg's nipple, eliciting another moan. He pinched it again, hard – much harder than he had earlier in the evening. An almost subsonic moan rumbled through Greg's body. Mycroft's fingernails played roughly over the tanned skin on Greg's chest, leaving more red marks. "Lean back on me. Put your legs in front of us. I don't want to break you in half."

Greg did as he was told, leaning back onto Mycroft's chest. Until now, he had been doing most of the work as far as penetration was concerned. Now it was all Mycroft. Greg gasped as Mycroft started to move beneath him. It was a completely different sensation, a naked wet slide that made his breath catch in his throat. Mycroft reached his arm over Greg's shoulder and across his chest, pulling him down tightly. The pressure against his neck felt wonderful. Mycroft's other hand started working him with insistence now, matching the pace of his thrusts. He felt Mycroft's hand against his neck and tipped his head back, Mycroft's long fingers gripping around his neck and gently started to get hazy, a warm throbbing cacophony of sensation all over his body. Then Mycroft released his neck and everything was in sharp focus again – Mycroft's cock in his arse and his hand bringing him off. Mycroft's other hand was once again raking pretty lines all over his chest. Somehow, and Greg didn't even know how this was physically possible, he felt Mycroft biting his neck, hard. And _that_ , that one thing, was what did it. _Fuck._ It was like his orgasm was being physically pulled from him. He'd never felt anything like it. "My… Nnngghhhhhhh…" Mycroft milked his cock until he was spent; Greg's body a sated heap on top of him.

Mycroft gently rolled Greg over on his side, pulling out of him. Greg looked at him, still in a bit of a daze. "You're not done though."

"It's fine, love, really."

"No, please, I insist."

Mycroft couldn't help it. He giggled. "Well, then, if you insist." He rolled over on top of Greg's completely fucked-out body, and thrust into him. Greg moaned and tilted his hips up a little. The change in position hit his prostate, and he bucked against Mycroft. "Oh god, My. That feels good." It was only a couple thrusts later, and Greg felt Mycroft coming inside him, shuddering and moaning, "Ohhh, Greg…"

They were both lying on the bed now, trying to recover – neither of them had the energy to even get up for a towel. They were both riding high on post-orgasmic neurochemicals. Mycroft leaned over towards Greg and kissed him on the cheek. "See, I made you scream."

"You did not. That was a groan."

"An exceedingly load groan."

"That's not the same as a scream."

"Oh, I think it is."

"You called me Greg."

"What?"

"When you came. You called me Greg. You never call me Greg." He could barely keep a giggle out of his voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Would I make that up?"

"Perhaps I was just in the middle of saying Gregory and didn't finish…" Mycroft knew this sounded ridiculous and started giggling as he said it. "Alright, perhaps I called you Greg."

"Screamed out 'Greg' as you came, you mean." There was undisguised amusement on Greg's face.

"I _definitely_ did not scream."

"Alright, but I didn't scream either. That was definitely a groan."

"Perhaps. I'll just have to try harder."

"Mmm. I think I'm satisfied that I fucked you into using the one syllable version of my name. Now there's a goal I didn't even know I had."

"I'm still calling you Gregory."

"Of course you are, love."

There was a long, comfortable silence. Then, Greg propped himself on one elbow and looked at Mycroft. "You never did any more with the pain stuff though. Why not?"

Mycroft laughed – that full body laugh, not just a giggle. "Look at yourself, love."

Greg glanced at his chest. There were scratch marks everywhere.

"And I must apologize, but the bite on your neck will probably bruise. And your nipple will probably be sore for a few days."

Greg touched his nipple and flinched.

"Lesson three. Pain can be pleasurable. And extremely relative."

"Apparently." Greg was still looking at the maze of marks on his chest. "You know, I really didn't feel that as pain."

"That's how it works, unless there's an awful lot of pain or you're not really turned on. Endorphins."

Greg looked impressed.

"We should get some sleep. We have a flight in the morning."

"You're something else, My. You don't have to do this to impress me, you know. You've already won me over."

"That may be, but you've never been to Paris, and we need a good corset. So how can I argue with that?"


	27. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg meet up for a pint. They convince Sherlock to abandon one of his experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references my story, _**Corset.**_ This chapter might make more sense if you've read it, but it's not strictly necessary.

Mycroft thought Greg should approach John about "the corset thing." Mycroft didn't feel comfortable bringing it up, worried he'd violate the oft-mentioned, but never discussed, "rules." Greg had agreed.

Greg sent John an innocuous text.

 _Mycroft's away on business again. Meet up for a pint? -GL_

 _Sure. Sherlock's busy with some new chemistry experiment anyway. I think the fumes are toxic. Need to get out of the flat. –JW_

 _Okay, pub on Baker at 6? –GL_

 _Sounds good. –JW_

It had been a while since they'd spent any time alone together. Sherlock tended to keep John close to home, not that John minded. Greg had been spending a lot of time with Mycroft, especially now that he'd essentially moved into the politician's flat. It did get a bit lonely when Mycroft was travelling, though.

Greg and John met at the pub, every inch the picture of two blokes out for a pint at the local. Few people, unless they'd been blessed with Sherlock's gift for observation, would have figured them for lovers. They bought their drinks and took a table at the back, far away from the crowd at the front.

"How's life, John?"

"The usual. Explosions in the kitchen. Body parts in the fridge. Can't complain, really. You?"

"Dinners that cost more than my weekly salary and seeing Mycroft's emotional side. Very strange, but can't say I'm complaining either."

"So things with you and Mycroft are going well then?"

"We're definitely past the kidnapping stage of the relationship." Greg paused, and took a slightly more serious tone. "Actually, we're way past that stage. I'm essentially living with him. Had the infamous 'Declaration of Love' discussion the other night. It's gone way past just being lovers."

John's eyes widened. "I had no idea. I take it you're happy with this turn of events?"

"Yeah. Haven't been this happy in years." Greg beamed.

John smiled. "Glad to hear it."

"You? Any trouble in paradise?"

There was a telling pause. "Well, you know. Sherlock can be… Sherlock. The other day we had a bit of a row about head games."

Greg looked alarmed.

"He was being a complete prat and wouldn't give it a rest. I snapped and demanded an apology. He refused." John stared into his glass, embarrassed. His voice dropped into what could only be described as a mumble. "There was some, uh, rough sex, which both of us were enjoying, and halfway through, he apologised for deliberately provoking me. It was an experiment. He'd wanted to see how much I'd put up with before I snapped. We had a discussion about the ethics of non-consensual psychological experimentation on loved ones… Well, 'discussion' is a bit strong. I lectured him. He apologised."

"Christ." Greg wasn't sure what else to say.

"I don't think he does it all the time, mind you. I think most of the time he just has no internal filter. Oh, and there's something else. He hadn't figured out that he gets off on submission. It's all just been separate 'experiments' for him. I think he gets it now. We haven't really talked about it yet, though. I need to give him a better grounding in the basics. Terminology, even. "

Greg let out a heavy sigh. "Sorry, mate."

"S'okay. It really is. Most of the time it's great – it's not often he makes me want to bang my head against the wall. Or his. He really does seem to be making an effort to be less annoying. When he's not completely focused on work, he's completely focused on me instead - which is pretty fucking amazing." John blushed. "He doesn't mope around the flat anymore, and the sex is still ridiculously hot."

"Glad to hear it. You're good for him, John. It's obvious. I know you've put Mycroft's mind at ease. He never thought Sherlock would care for anyone, let alone love them. Mycroft thinks you're wonderful, you know."

John smiled. "He used to bloody well terrify me. Are you sure you're still okay with the four of us, what with your new status and all?"

"Unless it starts to threaten what My and I have, yeah. It's probably a good thing we're not interfering with _their_ relationship. I'm not sure we could stop that even if we wanted to. You're still okay with that, right?"

"Yeah. Living with Sherlock…" He paused. "It's warped my mind a bit I think."

"Know what you mean." His voice dropped considerably. "The fact that I've seen my boyfriend getting fucked by his brother and gotten off on it? We're both a little warped. Oddly, I feel privileged to be part of it. S'not just sex. It's nice, seeing them relate to each other normally for a change. Um, well… relate. S'pose it's not particularly normal."

"We should get the two of them together again sometime."

Greg cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. "Funny you should mention that…" His voice trailed off.

"Oh?"

"Did Sherlock tell you Mycroft found out about the corset?"

"No…" He looked confused. "Wait, how? I thought the cameras were gone."

"They are. But not the ones across the road."

"Fuck. I never even thought of that. It's my fault. I wanted him to see how good he looked."

"S'not important. Mycroft sorted it. But it seems he has an interest in seeing Sherlock, um… in his corset. And I must admit I do as well." Greg cringed, and was relieved to see John smile.

"Oh, god yes. I could be up for that."

"He thought it might be better if I brought it up. He's worried about Sherlock's 'rules.'"

John sighed. "They really need to talk about that. But yeah, you're probably right. Who knows what Sherlock would do if Mycroft suggested it. God knows I have no objections, though."

Greg paused, then dropped the other shoe. "Then I told My I wanted to see _him_ in a corset."

John looked at Greg with curiosity. "Did he get one?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably. "Remember what I said about my life being strange?"

"Mm."

"Did you know Mycroft has a private jet?"

"What? Another perk?"

"No, it's _his_. Took me to Paris to buy a corset. Fucking Paris, on the spur of the moment. 'Cause I told him I thought he'd look good in one. It's insane, John. I'm completely out of my league."

John laughed. "I think we both are. Mycroft's lucky to have you though, and he knows it. Don't let the money thing become an issue."

"Yeah, I know, it just makes my head spin."

"So, the corset…"

"Yeah, so we got one. He hasn't worn it yet, well, short of trying it on at the shop. Which was bloody hot, mind you. Anyway, he thought it would be fun to have a Corset Night, the four of us."

John swallowed.

"Don't _say_ anything to him, but I think My's more of a switch than he lets on. Given what you've said about Sherlock, I think, well… I think it would be a lot of fun if we got them together and turned the tables a bit. Have them both sub for a change. It's really too bad My's out of the country right now, but he should be back in a day or two."

John ran his hand over his face and stared at Greg, trying to regain his composure. "I am _not_ going to be able to walk out of here without a hard-on if you don't shut the fuck up."

"Let's go, there's a back door."

The pub backed onto an empty alley. Greg pushed John up against the brick wall. They were seconds away from kissing. Then Greg pulled back, sighing with resignation. "Sherlock would know. That's how this started, remember?"

John sighed with a ragged breath. "He'd understand."

"Would he?" Greg wasn't sure about that. He didn't want to be having this conversation. He wanted to be kissing John senseless. Or fucking him through the wall. Either way.

"You're probably right. Come on."

"Where?"

"Home. I think the two of us can convince him he needs to abandon his experiment."

They started hurrying back to the flat, just down the road. John paused. "You think Mycroft is gonna be okay with this?"

"Yeah. It's not like he won't find out anyway. He's fucking omniscient. Hell, he'll probably get off on it if I give him details."

 _He's probably right._ "You up for being toppish?"

"I could be. Think he'd be into that?"

"Trust me. If the other day was any indication, he will be. He's got a safeword and he knows how to use it. Follow my lead."

"Gladly."

John unlocked the door to the flat.

"John? I think this might be toxic after all." Sherlock was standing in the kitchen. The flat reeked of chemicals. _John reeks of the pub._

John sighed and started opening windows, letting in the brisk fresh air.

"Greg?" Sherlock looked surprised. "What are you doing here? Oh." He saw the lingering signs of arousal on Greg and his eyes widened. _That's why John left._ He frowned. _No, that's not it._ Even with the chemical stench lingering in the air, he could tell John didn't have Greg's scent on him. A quick glance at their trousers confirmed it. _They're both still aroused. They clearly didn't do anything about it._ His eyes widened again. "Ah."

John was still running around opening windows. "Have you stopped the reaction or will we all be dead in a few minutes?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Of course. It's fine."

"You're sure?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "So, did you two have fun at the pub?" He ran his tongue over his top lip, suggestively.

John pushed him against the counter. "You know damned well we didn't do anything." He ground his leg between Sherlock's, not surprised to find him half-hard. "I think I take offense at that, actually. What about you, Greg?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, give us some credit. You don't honestly think we'd leave you out of it, do you? You're right, John. His manners are still atrocious."

Sherlock didn't see Greg give John a brief glance towards the window. _No reason to leave Mycroft out of this…_

John leaned in close, grabbing Sherlock's hair and hissing in his ear. "I keep telling you, Sherlock, you really need to work on that. After all Greg's done for you in the past? I think he deserves a little more respect."

Sherlock's face went slack and his eyes fluttered. John could feel Sherlock's knees give a bit.

John pulled him into the front room in front of the window.

Sherlock glanced at the window and looked back at John with a trace of panic on his face. "The camera."

John smiled one of his Innocent Smiles. "Oh, don't worry; I'm sure Mycroft will be _glad_ to see your apology to Greg. It would be such a shame to leave him out of this. Greg, why don't you make sure this comes across his desk when he gets back?"

Greg texted Anthea, telling her to make sure the Baker Street window cameras went directly, and only, to Mycroft's personal feed until she heard back from him.

Greg's phone beeped almost immediately. "Of course. Done. –A"

"You're breathing more quickly, Sherlock. Wishing Mycroft was here to spank you himself?"

Sherlock gave him a look that was half fury and half unadulterated lust.

"Greg, please bring me Sherlock's chair, and set it facing the window."

Greg manoeuvred the bulky leather chair until it had a lovely view of the window. You could see the security camera pointed directly at it, once you knew where to look.

"In front of the chair, Sherlock. Strip. Perhaps this will help you remember your manners."

Neither John nor Sherlock knew it, but the same thought went through both their heads simultaneously. _Or forget them even more often._

Greg closed the windows John had opened. The flat had aired out enough that the fumes were gone, and Greg didn't want them all to freeze.

John sat in the chair. "Give Greg and Mycroft a good view. I get to see that lovely cock of yours all the time. Plus, I want to see that gorgeous arse I'm going to be turning a lovely shade of pink in a few minutes."

Sherlock's face went a lovely shade of pink, his expression a mixture of fury and lust. At this point, it was mostly lust. His head whipped around to look at John, who just stared at him, waiting.

Sherlock turned back to the window and started shedding his clothes.

John watched, hardly dispassionate. Sherlock turned to face him, the defiance on his face betrayed by his raging hard-on. John knew he'd been right. Add humiliation to Sherlock's growing list of kinks. "Hands."

Sherlock placed his hands together in front of him.

John grabbed them with one hand and pulled Sherlock over his knees, his cock pressing hard against John's leg. Sherlock moaned. John decided to let it go, he _wanted_ to hear him, after all. He wanted this as much as Sherlock (or, he suspected, Greg) did. "Greg, why don't you come over here so Sherlock can see you? How many do you think he should get for his insolence?"

Greg knelt down in front of Sherlock and took his chin in his hand, tilting Sherlock's face towards him. Sherlock stared at him with lust-blown pupils. Greg moved his hand from Sherlock's chin, and rubbed his fingers over his lower lip. Sherlock sucked them in eagerly, fellating them. Greg failed to repress a small moan. His voice was quiet and calm. "Tell me, Sherlock. How many do you think you deserve?" He pulled his fingers from Sherlock's mouth, eliciting a whine of protest.

"Ten. From each of you."

Greg's eyebrows rose in surprise. _Oh fuck, yes. I wasn't expecting that._ "I think sounds fair. What do you think, John?"

"I agree. Let's get started then, shall we? Sherlock, if you'd like to keep count…" John knew from personal experience just how hard it was to talk while you were receiving a thrashing – wrong side of the brain… John's hand came down with a slap on Sherlock's pale arse. _Start him out slowly. After all, this isn't actually punishment._

"One."

Another slap, the opposite cheek this time.

"Two."

 _No problem with his counting. Let's make this a bit more difficult._ His hand came down with a crack this time, leaving a pink mark on the delicate skin.

A moan. "Uh… three."

 _That's more like it._ "Sherlock, would you like to apologise to Greg?"

"Wha…? Uh…" _Smack._ "I'm… sorry Greg."

"What number was that Sherlock?"

"I… Um… I don't know. Four?"

John smiled, knowing exactly what he was doing. "Getting a little hard to keep track, is it?"

"Yes…" Sherlock's voice was distant.

John gave him six more, Sherlock struggling to keep count. By the time he was done, his arse was bright red. John rubbed his hand lightly over the burning hot skin. "Very good, love. You took that very well. Are you ready for Greg's, or do you need a few minutes?"

"Um…" Sherlock struggled to find words. "…ready."

John gently lifted Sherlock off his lap and held him steady, looking at his eyes. _He's definitely elsewhere. I haven't seen that look since I cropped him that time._

Greg sat in the chair. John helped bend Sherlock over Greg's lap. Sherlock was still ragingly hard. Once he was in position, John mouthed to Greg, "Not too hard." Greg nodded.

"Sherlock, you there?"

Sherlock moaned.

"Listen to me. You can count these off for me, or you can suck me off while John fucks you later. It's up to you."

John gaped at him. _Fuck, he's a genius. I hadn't even thought of that._

Sherlock's brain fought against the fuzz of endorphins and arousal. "Um… second one."

Greg let Sherlock's massive brain get back to the important work of producing endorphins.

As Greg slapped his arse experimentally, Sherlock just moaned and ground against his leg. He seemed to be registering no pain at all.

John crouched down in front of his blissed-out lover and cupped his face in his hand. Sherlock leaned into the touch like a cat. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. John kissed his eyelids gently, then stood back up, and nodded to Greg.

Greg delivered the rest of the blows, but he wasn't sure Sherlock even noticed. The pitch of his moans became lower and he was writhing against Greg by the time he was finished.

John helped Sherlock to his feet and held him while Greg got out of the chair. They sat him, still slightly dazed, in the chair.

Sherlock seemed to come back down a bit while he sat there, at least to the point of coherent thought. He looked at his lover with a blissful expression on his face. "Oh, John. So good."

"More, love?"

"Yes… Please…"

"Both of us?"

"God, yes…"

John looked at Greg and they both shed their clothes. John grabbed lube from the drawer in the desk. This earned him a raised eyebrow from Greg. John just shrugged, sheepishly.

Naked now, John straddled Sherlock in the chair and grabbed the dark curls at the base of his neck. He pulled him forward and kissed him passionately. They were both ridiculously hard, and their cocks rubbed against each other. John whispered in Sherlock's ear. "Still okay with giving Mycroft a show, love?" He pulled back so he could see Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock raised the corner of his mouth in a smile. "Always."

 _That's more like it. He's back with us._ He pulled Sherlock in for another kiss and ground against him. John bit at his lower lip, and Sherlock moaned.

"Mmm. Bloody well get on with it, John. If you don't fuck me soon I'm going to die."

"I don't think that's medically possible, but since you asked _so_ politely…" John stood up and let Sherlock get out of the chair.

Sherlock knelt on his hands and knees in front of the chair. "Well? _I'm_ ready…"

John and Greg didn't need more prompting that that.

Greg was at his mouth, his hard cock already leaking. Sherlock stared up at him through his lashes as he took Greg's cock in his mouth. Greg pushed himself in further, and Sherlock's eyes closed as he groaned around it. Greg stared, entranced, as Sherlock's perfect lips encircled his cock. _Fucking hell, that feels good._ His brain flashed back to that first weekend at his flat. _Naked, naked, naked. Bloody fucking hell._ He felt the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat and started to move slowly back and forth.

John was behind Sherlock, already working two lubed fingers inside him, scissoring him open. Sherlock was practically fucking himself on them.

He made a low, throaty noise that would have sounded suspiciously like "more" if his mouth hadn't been so full of Greg.

John added another finger and brushed over his prostate for good measure.

His lover jerked reflexively, causing his teeth to rub along the sensitive underside of Greg's cock.

Greg rolled forward on his toes at the sensation, grabbing at Sherlock's hair to steady himself. "Nngghhh. Fuck, Sherlock." Feeling Greg's fist in his hair just made Sherlock suck harder. It was a delicious feedback loop. Greg was just staring at Sherlock's arse, watching John's fingers disappear into him. _I really should text John more often._

John's remaining control evaporated into the charged atmosphere. He pulled out his fingers and smeared more lube over his cock. He stood between Sherlock's legs, spreading them further apart.

Sherlock instinctually tipped his arse up to get a better angle.

John put one hand on Sherlock's hip, used the other to position his cock against Sherlock's hole, and started to push in. The velvety tightness of it made his toes curl and he drew a shuddery breath. "Fucking hell," he muttered. He worked his way inside in short, smooth strokes, his hands on Sherlock's hips controlling the depth of his thrusts.

Sherlock was already high on endorphins. Being so utterly filled like this was completely frying his brain. He couldn't even process it. _So full. So much. So good._ By the time John was completely inside him, coherent thought had gone altogether, and he was just letting it happen, enjoying the intense sensations. When John started stroking his cock as well _(Oh, so hard for so long),_ he felt the beginnings of his orgasm.

John was familiar enough with Sherlock's body to know he was close. "Not yet, love. You need to wait for us." He wrapped his fingers tightly around the base of Sherlock's cock, preventing him from coming. _Fuck, I should have waited. Too late now. Best to move things along._ He slammed himself into Sherlock, the force of it shoving Greg's cock down Sherlock's throat. All three of them made incoherent noises.

"Nghh. Fuck! John, do that again. A couple more times like that and I'm gonna come."

Between the exquisite tightness of Sherlock's arse and the charged atmosphere, John wasn't far off either. He released the base of Sherlock's cock and started stroking him again, pounding into him at the same time.

Greg lost it first. His legs going rigid, he shuddered his release deep down Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock swallowed him down, trying to concentrate on the sensations in his arse and the feel of John's hand stroking his cock. He was distantly aware of Greg pulling out of his mouth, come trailing over his lips. He licked off his lips, tasting Greg at the same time. _Different from John._ "So close, John. Harder, fuck me harder."

With Greg's cock no longer in danger of accidental removal, John grabbed both of Sherlock's hips and started pounding into him as hard as he could. Sherlock was close enough that he no longer needed a hand on his cock, and within seconds he was coming all over himself and the floor. Watching his lover come was enough to send John to the same place, and he went rigid as he pulsed deep inside Sherlock's arse. "Fucking hell, Sherlock." He stood there, gasping. He grabbed Sherlock by the chest and pulled him up. His cock slid out, getting a gasp of "aahh-hah" from Sherlock. He turned his lover to face him, and pulled him close, kissing him gently. He could taste Greg on Sherlock's lips. He murmured to Sherlock through the kiss. "You did so well love, so very well."

Sherlock just moaned happily and nuzzled his head against John's shoulder.

Greg came over to John. "Want me to get some towels or something?"

Sherlock lifted his head, his pupils still blown, and smiled. "Greg. Thanks. C'mere."

Greg went over to him and Sherlock kissed him gently over John's shoulder. "I should be the one thanking you, Sherlock. That was amazing."

Sherlock smiled and put his head back on John's shoulder.

John looked at Greg, appreciatively. "There are dressing gowns upstairs in my wardrobe. I picked up a couple extra... There are towels up there as well. Thank you." With that, he turned his attention to the slightly trembling form currently draped over his shoulder. "C'mon love. Come sit over here." He made their way to the settee, spreading a blanket over it and wrapping it around Sherlock.

"I'm not in shock, John."

Greg smiled fondly at him as he came down the stairs with the dressing gowns. "Perhaps some of us wanna take photographs."

Sherlock threw a pillow at him.

They cleaned up and put on their dressing gowns. (Greg had been somewhat moved to find that John had purchased dressing gowns in his and Mycroft's sizes.) John, predictably, made tea. Sherlock got rid of the blanket and draped himself across the settee, which seemed only fair. Greg moved Sherlock's chair back to its usual spot and texted Anthea. John showed up with tea and biscuits.

"So, Greg," Sherlock drawled, his air of indifference restored, "to what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Well, it's about your new corset…"


	28. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft discuss the 'rules' Sherlock imposed, but never defined, back in ["Negotiations."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/278239/chapters/444784)

Mycroft got home at three in the morning. He crawled into bed gingerly, trying not to wake Greg.

"Mmmf. My?"

"Mm. Go back to sleep, love."

Greg struggled to extract himself from the dream he'd been having. _They'd been on Mycroft's jet. No, there had been something wrong with his jet, and they'd taken an odd little charter jet, held together with bits of baling wire. Except Sherlock was the pilot. It was all very strange._ "Need to talk to you before you go to work."

"I'm very sorry Gregory; I need to get in early tomorrow. I was hoping to just let you sleep until you had to get up."

Greg was awake now and propped himself up on one elbow. "Yeah, about that… There's going to be some CCTV footage for you. I went and had a chat with Sherlock and John yesterday. It got a little heated."

"Heated?" There was a trace of alarm in his voice.

"Um, sexual. We felt bad that you weren't there, so I contacted Anthea and had her route the CCTV from the window to your private feed. And then we… ah, well, we did it in front of the window. Sherlock has more of a submissive kink than he realised. And a bit of an exhibitionist one as well, where you're concerned."

"Oh dear lord."

Greg couldn't make out Mycroft's expression in the dim light of the bedroom. He wasn't sure how he was taking this. There was an odd muffled sound.

"My? I'm sorry?" Greg wasn't sure if he was supposed to be apologising or not.

Mycroft removed his hand from over his mouth, and the sound was no longer muffled. Mycroft Holmes was giggling like a schoolgirl. "No, it's fine, Gregory." Another fit of giggles. "I'm just glad you warned me. I'm guessing I don't want to view this at work?"

"Not if you want to get any work done, no. And certainly not with company."

"I would say 'I'm sorry I missed it,' but it sounds like I really didn't. You know you're a complete perv, don't you?"

 _I didn't know he even knew the word 'perv.'_ "Never said I wasn't."

Mycroft fumbled in the dark, finding his face, and kissed him deeply. "Mmm. You didn't. And that's part of why I love you, Gregory. You won't mind if I bring home the DVD of the footage?"

"I was hoping we could watch it together sometime."

"Oh, I must say, that sounds lovely. So what was the result of this little chat? I'm assuming there _was_ a chat, at some point."

"Oh yes. No footage of that though, sorry. Both of them were very enthusiastic about the corset idea. There's one thing though - I think you and Sherlock really need to discuss this 'rules' thing he has. I know you've never discussed it, and I think it needs to be brought into the open, so you know where you stand. Of course, that's just my opinion."

"No Gregory, you're quite right. I'll see what I can set up." He paused. "You know, for three in the morning, you're awfully alert."

"You too. I hear sex can make you tired…"

The next morning, Anthea brought Mycroft his stack of paperwork. It contained the DVD, as he'd expected.

Anthea was good at her job. She was _very_ good at her job. She could kill someone in fifty different ways in order to protect her boss. She managed appointments with heads of state. And she could look Mycroft Holmes in the eye after watching his brother get fucked eight ways to Sunday by D.I. Lestrade and John Watson. Without flinching. She never said she wasn't a perv.

"Thank you, A. I trust you enjoyed the proceedings."

She smiled sweetly. "Would you like tea, sir?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, my dear."

She did allow herself a small smile once she left his office.

Mycroft placed the DVD in his briefcase and settled in to do his paperwork. It was a productive morning. At lunchtime, he called Greg. "I'm going to work from home this afternoon. I'm going to try and get Sherlock to come over to the flat to discuss this 'rules' thing. I wanted to give you fair warning, in case you walk in and he's still there. We could be at each other's throats, in either sense of the phrase. That's obviously not my intent, but I never know with him."

"Not a problem. I was planning on being here 'til six or so."

"Alright. I'll send a car for you at six. Thank you, Gregory."

"For what?"

"Understanding."

"Of course I do. Love you."

"Love you too. See you tonight."

Mycroft texted Sherlock.

 _I'd like to speak with you about your rules, if that is convenient for you. My flat or yours, but I would prefer it to be just the two of us. -MH_

 _Your flat. –SH_

 _I'll pick you up. –MH_

Mycroft Holmes was rarely nervous. It was part of what made him such an excellent politician. Matters concerning his brother were the notable exception. _Sexual_ matters concerning his brother transcended 'nervousness' and entered the realms of 'truly terrifying.' He'd forgone any sort of lunch. His stomach was a churning mess as it was. He didn't need food adding to the problem.

He decided on his course of action before he even left the office. He sincerely believed it was his only chance of getting what he wanted ( _no, not wanted, needed)_ out of this.

Twenty minutes later, the sleek black car pulled up outside of Baker Street. Sherlock had clearly been waiting downstairs and stepped out into the brisk London afternoon wearing his coat and scarf.

Mycroft smiled to himself. _He does have such a weakness for vanity_. Sherlock had worn the (admittedly flattering) coat, even though he knew the car would be warm and that they'd be going directly to the flat. Mycroft stepped out of the car and opened the door for him. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

 _A guarded reception. Not surprising. Neither of us really knows where this is going._

Sherlock loosened his scarf and settled back into his seat.

Mycroft looked at him. "Thank you for coming, Sherlock. I truly appreciate it." He gave his younger brother a look few people ever saw – an open, genuine smile. It had none of the tight-lipped forced cheeriness of his usual 'smile' – the type of smile that usually signified the very opposite of mirth.

Sherlock looked at him, confused. _Not the reception I'd expected. I thought we were negotiating. That is certainly not his negotiation face._ "What are you playing at, Mycroft?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. I'd like to discuss your rules. When we get to the flat, of course."

"Of course."

They rode to the flat in silence – not a particularly comfortable one, but not tinged with outright hostility either. Mycroft allowed his screaming nerves to relax, just a fraction.

They arrived and took the private lift up to the sumptuous flat.

"May I take your coat, Sherlock?" He wanted to use the term 'brother,' but he'd used it so often in sarcastic situations in the past. He felt it would be in poor judgement.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and silently removed his coat and scarf, handing them to his elder sibling. Mycroft hung them up in the hallway cupboard.

 _Years of upper-class repression and sibling rivalry have reduced us to this. I sound like his butler. But he's just as terrified as I am behind that mask of indifference._

Mycroft led them to the sitting room and offered him a seat on one of the plush leather settees. Sherlock lounged across it, just enough to exude dominance over the situation. _That doesn't work on me, dear brother. I know how your mind works._ Sherlock's head whipped up to look at him. _Forgotten about that, had you? Would you prefer we conduct the entire conversation this way?_ Mycroft sat erect, but comfortably, in his favourite chair, a smile playing over his lips.

Sherlock sighed. "No. Words will be fine. So, why am I here?"

Almost everything Mycroft ever said usually had traces of sarcasm, but now he worked particularly hard to keep them out of his voice. It was time to see if his strategy was going to work. "I'd like to discuss the rules you wanted to establish regarding our contact. We never established what they were, and I need to ensure I don't unknowingly break them." He paused, wanting to make sure Sherlock understood how serious he was. "I will do anything, Sherlock, absolutely _anything_ , to have you in my life – in _any_ capacity you will allow. The only time I will disregard your rules is if you are in physical danger, or if you're using again." That was it. _Brutal honesty, dearest brother. That's all I have._

Sherlock raised his eyebrow again and sat in silence.

Mycroft waited. He was prepared to wait all afternoon if he needed to.

Sherlock felt some of the tension melt out of him. _This isn't going how I expected._ Then he closed off his thoughts, realizing My could probably hear him.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock finally spoke. His voice sounded resigned. "It was a bluff, My, and you called it. I have no rules. I thought you were too much of a dominant to accept my assertion of control over the situation." He paused. "I was wrong." He waited for the sarcastic remarks to come flying his way.

They didn't.

Sherlock had been staring intently at the patterns in the wood floorboards. He finally looked up at Mycroft. "Say something, My. Anything."

Mycroft practically leapt out of his chair and rushed over to pull his brother into a strong hug. "Like I said, I just want you in my life. In any way you'll allow it."

When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was quiet and almost fragile. "I want that too, My."

They pulled apart a little and gently kissed. Their lips just barely touched, both of them too emotionally wrung out to do anything more.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I can't tell you how much that means to me."

 _You don't have to._

Mycroft beamed.

They both sat on the settee and leaned into each other for a while. Their breathing synchronised, but they didn't even notice.

"Would you like something to drink, Sherlock? I'm going to go make some tea."

Sherlock laughed. "God, you and John and tea."

"Coffee, then?"

"No, tea's fine. Thanks." He let loose the briefest of giggles.

Sherlock's mood had completely lifted. It was like the ice had broken and all of a sudden they were relaxing on a beach somewhere. (Mycroft briefly tried to imagine that, but couldn't see either of them at any sort of beach. He settled for the mental image of a midsummer lakeside in Scandinavia. In a nice linen suit.)

Sherlock shifted to the edge of the settee as Mycroft went to the kitchen. "So… have you watched the DVD yet?" Sherlock looked positively gleeful now, almost manic.

"No, Gregory warned me about it before I left this morning. From Anthea's reaction though, I imagine I'm in for quite a treat."


	29. Briefcase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft watch the DVD. Things get a little odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Holmescest

Sherlock looked surprised. "Anthea saw the DVD?"

"Well, she didn't say as much, but it was abundantly clear that she'd watched it."

 _Ah. Right. His senses are just as good as mine._ His smile widened. "How silly of me. And here I thought this was for your eyes only."

"Honestly Sherlock, you should know I don't spend my day burning DVDs. Besides, she works hard – who am I to deny her a little voyeuristic thrill every now and then?"

"Mm. Speaking of voyeuristic thrills, I'm surprised you haven't watched it yet." His voice was teasing.

Mycroft's heart wrenched, though he made a conscious effort not to show it. He didn't want to kill Sherlock's good mood. The thing with the rules had been gnawing at him all day. In that state of mind, the idea of watching his brother with Greg and John was about as appealing as the thought of going to work in a tracksuit - which is to say, while it sounded like fun, nothing could have been further from the truth.

He forced his mind back to brighter tones. "I wanted to wait until after I'd talked with you. Why? Are you proposing we watch it?" Two could play at this game.

"Well, I _would_ like to see the footage. I assume this is the only copy."

"Good lord, you're quite the exhibitionist, aren't you? I never knew you had so many little kinks, brother mine." It was said with affection, and it was received with affection – specifically, a playful nip to Mycroft's neck. Mycroft let out a small moan and quickly tried to regain his composure.

"I heard that, My. Where is it? I know you want to see it as much as I do."

"Perhaps I wanted to watch it with Greg." He tried and failed to repress a smirk. He was quite happy to lose this battle, but there was no point in giving in immediately.

"Perhaps you can watch it _again_ with Greg. It's not like it's going to self-destruct after you watch it." He paused and looked at Mycroft. "It's not, is it?"

"No, it's just a normal DVD."

"Oh, I'd _hardly_ call it that," Sherlock smirked. He headed for Mycroft's briefcase.

"No, wait! Don't open it!"

Sherlock stopped.

"Sorry, it's been fitted with some of MI5's new toys. If you don't open it the correct way, it sets off a gas canister."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And you say _I'm_ dramatic."

"Dramatic, perhaps, but that doesn't mean I'm lying." He opened the briefcase in the prescribed manner, and removed the DVD.

Suddenly, Sherlock was twelve years old again. "Oh, come on Mycroft. Make it set off the gas."

"Do you have the _faintest_ idea how much paperwork that would entail? Besides, I don't want Gregory to come home to the two of us passed out on the floor."

"There are worse things for him to come home to… or better, depending on your point of view." Sherlock placed a hand on Mycroft's waist. "What _is_ his point of view?"

"I believe the phrase is 'live and let live.'"

"Mmm." Sherlock nuzzled the back of his neck and tightened his grip around his brother's waist. He pressed warmly against Mycroft's back and ground slowly against Mycroft's arse.

Mycroft wanted to savour these moments with his brother. It was so rare they got the chance to be alone. He wanted to keep his desire in check for as long as he could. Sherlock was not making that particularly easy. Just the heady scent of him made Mycroft want to kiss him senseless.

Regaining some self-control, Mycroft turned around so he was facing Sherlock and lifted his younger brother's hand slowly to his lips. He opened his mouth and took two of Sherlock's fingers inside, sucking on them gently.

Sherlock stared at him through heavily lidded eyes. The hot wetness of Mycroft's mouth was making his brain fuzz. "My…" The gesture was far more intimate than either of them had expected. It made Sherlock weak in the knees.

Mycroft withdrew Sherlock's fingers and gripped his palm lightly. He placed Sherlock's fingers at the hollow behind his own ear, and applied pressure to the back of Sherlock's hand, pressing his brother's moistened fingers into the skin of his neck. He pulled them down along his jaw, stopping at his pulse point, allowing Sherlock to feel the beat of his racing heart. The air cooled the line of moisture along his neck, making him tremble. Mycroft took the fingers of this other hand and mirrored his actions along Sherlock's throat. They stood there, looking at each other, breathing heavily.

Sherlock spoke first, his voice barely a whisper. "You want this as much as I do, don't you, My?"

A dozen answers went through Mycroft's head. He just said, "Yes."

They leaned in and kissed, Mycroft tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's hands around Mycroft's waist. The kiss grew more desperate as they memorized each other's taste and scent, usually complicated by the presence of their lovers. Sherlock broke the kiss and started loosening Mycroft's tie.

"I have no intention of watching this DVD with both of us fully clothed. Either you help me take off this ridiculous suit or I'll tear it off myself."

Mycroft considered a retort extolling the merits of bespoke tailoring, thought better of it, and took off his jacket. The waistcoat followed. Sherlock started working on the buttons of his shirt while Mycroft removed his cufflinks. Sherlock briefly admired the light dusting of ginger hair on his brother's chest, and then leaned in and flicked Mycroft's left nipple with his tongue. Then he blew on it.

 _You're a tease, Sherlock._

 _It's only teasing if I don't plan on seeing it through._

Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt, but Mycroft grabbed his hands.

 _No, let me. Please._

Sherlock dropped his hands and started working on Mycroft's trousers.

Mycroft gazed at the purple shirt stretched tightly over his brother's chest. "You are sex, personified, Sherlock. You know that, don't you? Don't you find that even a little bit ironic?"

"Not since I followed John to Greg's flat that day. Are you going to take my shirt off or just look at it all day?"

"Why _do_ you buy your shirts too small?" Mycroft knew the answer; he just wanted to hear Sherlock say it.

"Because they make me look ridiculously hot." Sherlock looked at him with an evil smile. "The same reason I own those leather bondage trousers."

Mycroft forgot how to breathe for a second.

"You'd forgotten about those, hadn't you?"

"Not anymore."

"I'll bring them next time."

 _Next time?_

 _Yes, next time. Now get my bloody shirt off._

Mycroft finished undoing the buttons and pulled the shirt off, exposing the pale expanse of his lightly muscled chest. Sherlock had undone his trousers and they'd fallen to the floor. He stepped out of them.

Sherlock quickly undid his own trousers, and soon they were both standing there in matching silk boxer shirts. Dark blue.

Sherlock glanced at his brother. "You have excellent taste, brother."

"I'd like to see how you taste."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to forget how to breathe. Before he could remember, Mycroft pulled down Sherlock's pants, exposing his erection. He knelt in front of his brother and took him into his mouth. Sherlock was about to discover that Mycroft's high standards of excellence didn't only apply to his work. Mycroft's deliciously wet mouth engulfed his cock and soon his face was buried in the soft curls at the base of his cock. Sherlock moaned, and he was suddenly and irrationally jealous of Gregory Lestrade. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you need to stop."

Mycroft looked up in alarm and pulled back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you keep that up, I'm really not going to last very long, and I'd at least like to make it through the DVD."

Mycroft smiled. "Right. The DVD. Do you want to watch it out here or in the playroom?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. _Playroom?_

 _Oh._ "I've never given you the full tour, have I…"

Sherlock shook his head. "I really think you ought."

Mycroft grabbed the DVD and practically pulled Sherlock down the hallway. He opened a door that Sherlock had assumed was another guest bedroom.

Sherlock gaped at the view in front of him, in much the same way that Greg had done. "Bloody hell, My. I had no idea. This goes _way_ beyond leather cuffs in the nightstand."

Mycroft smiled. "I've had the twin luxuries of time and resources, dear brother. It takes a while to learn one's kinks."

Sherlock was speechless, his eyes and brain cataloguing everything in the room.

"You don't have to do that, Sherlock. You're more than welcome to use it at any time, as is John." He motioned to a four poster bed at the side of the room. Would you like to watch the DVD from there, or use one of the chairs?"

Sherlock looked at him as though this was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. He started heading towards the bed. Mycroft went over to a panel in the wall and inserted the DVD. A large LCD panel television on the wall came to life, filled with surprisingly high resolution footage of the window at Baker Street.

Sherlock lay on his side, propping himself up on the fluffy pillows. Mycroft stepped out of his pants and shifted up next to him on his side, their warm skin touching. He pressed play and put the remote beside them on the bed. Their voices were clearly audible on the DVD. "Wait, I thought you'd removed the audio feeds?"

"We did. Directional audio is surprisingly effective." Mycroft smiled. "Sorry."

Mycroft couldn't repress a moan as Sherlock was bent over John's lap. Greg crouched in front of Sherlock and asked him how many he deserved. Ten from each of them.

"Oh, Sherlock. Twenty? I'm impressed." He looked at his brother next to him and saw a look of pride on his face. As the spanking continued, he could see his expression getting more and more blissed-out. He reached out to touch Sherlock's face. "Quiets the mind, doesn't it, little brother?"

Sherlock turned and looked at him with surprise.

"Why do you think I'm so into it?" Mycroft motioned in the direction of the toys and restraints.

The last piece of the submissive puzzle clicked into place for Sherlock. True, John had done most of the work putting it together, but Mycroft was the one who had completed the picture.

 _Now you understand?_

 _Completely. Christ. No wonder I get off on it._

Mycroft smiled and turned his attention back to the screen, wrapping his naked body around Sherlock.

Mycroft watched as John made Sherlock count _. He knows that isn't easy. He has more experience as a top than I'd realized._

Now Sherlock was over Greg's lap. "Did you even feel those?"

"Not really, no."

John was placing him in the chair, and they waited for him to come down off his endorphin high a bit.

Mycroft took the opportunity to move Sherlock's hair aside and start placing small bites on his neck. Sherlock went the less subtle route and rubbed his arse against his brother's hardening cock.

"Behave, or I'll make you."

Sherlock flipped over so he was facing Mycroft, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him roughly. With his other hand, he pulled Mycroft's arse closer and rubbed their cocks together. "Promise?"

"Oh Sherlock, you know I don't make idle threats." He paused the DVD. With a smile, he extracted himself from Sherlock's grasp and crossed the room to wardrobe on the other side. Two individual wrist cuffs, two individual ankle cuffs, four lengths of rope, four snap hooks, and a ball gag. _Just in case. I really don't want to use the ball gag though; there are so many better uses for that mouth._

"What are you doing over there?"

"Be quiet, Sherlock. Please don't make me use the ball gag. Your mouth is so attractive, especially when it's silent."

The calm authority of Mycroft's tone went straight to Sherlock's cock. He shut up.

"Very good. You're learning. Besides, I'd prefer my cock in your mouth." He heard a shuddering deep breath from the bed. "On your back, arms and legs towards the corners of the bed." Sherlock's eyes widened. "I do believe you asked me to make you behave?"

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He got into position, feeling surprisingly vulnerable.

"You have a safeword with John, right?" Sherlock nodded. "What is it?"

"Stop."

"Do you want a different one for me?"

"No."

"Good. Now, why am I punishing you?"

 _Because I misbehaved. No, wait. Because I want it. Because I need it to shut my brain up._ "Because I want it."

"Exactly, dear brother, and I am more than happy to help with any discipline problems you might have." Mycroft smiled, trying to hold himself together, despite the nearly inconceivable image of his brother, naked and spread-eagled on the bed in front of him. _Bloody hell. I just want to fuck him senseless._

 _I heard that. If it makes you feel better, the feeling is mutual._

Desire stabbed at Mycroft's gut. The sight of Sherlock was breath-taking. Hearing his brother's commentary on his reaction was… well, almost a feedback loop. Being able to communicate like this was a curse sometimes. It was impossible to play the impassive dom when your lover could read your mind. Not that it mattered - he was completely naked, and his arousal was obvious enough.

As he attached the cuffs to Sherlock's wrists and ankles, the need grew to be too much. Sherlock was only cuffed – he hadn't yet been tied to the bedposts. "Sherlock. Come here." He motioned to the side of the bed, and took a long, deep breath. _Your wrists look gorgeous in cuffs._ He grabbed Sherlock's hair, and pulled his head back roughly. Sherlock moaned and offered his neck to Mycroft, a pale alabaster sacrifice. The sight of it made Mycroft's mouth water, and he sunk his teeth into the pale flesh. Sherlock made an unearthly noise and thrust his whole body towards Mycroft, aching for more contact.

The feel of his brother's hard cock against his stomach was too much, and Mycroft fought to regain some sort of control over his body. He pushed Sherlock roughly back onto the bed. "Back in position. Now." Sherlock made a pained noise but did as he was told. Mycroft busied himself by tying the cuffs to the bedposts with adjustable knots. When he'd finished, he tightened them so that Sherlock was stretched taut in a perfect X. His cock, ragingly hard and leaking onto his stomach, was the only part of his body that was not pale and luminous. Well, that and the bite mark on his neck.

"Good lord, Sherlock, you're beautiful." His voice was ragged. He knelt on the bed between his brother's stretched legs, and ran his hand over Sherlock's thigh.

"Biteable." He nipped at his inner thigh. Sherlock jumped, but was restrained by the taut ropes.

"Delectable." Mycroft bowed his head and took one of Sherlock's balls in his mouth. He rolled his tongue around it. Sherlock groaned, loudly. "Fuck, My…" He teased him with his tongue for a while, and then pulled off.

"Markable." He pulled his fingernails down the sensitive unmarked skin of his inner thighs. As tightly as he was tied, Sherlock still managed to arch his back off the bed at the sensation of it. Fine red lines appeared on his skin. Mycroft murmured his approval.

"Edible." Sherlock let out a feral cry as Mycroft engulfed his cock in his hot, wet mouth. His hands cupped Sherlock's balls and played with the skin underneath them as he sucked eagerly on his brother. Sherlock craned his neck so he could see. The sight of his cock disappearing into Mycroft's mouth made his head spin. Mycroft took him deep in his throat, swallowing hard to stimulate the head of Sherlock's cock. Another moan. He pulled off his brother and shifted so his legs were kneeling at either side of Sherlock's waist.

"Kissable." He leaned forward, cupped Sherlock's face with his hand and kissed him passionately, his tongue invading his brother's mouth and owning it. Sherlock gave himself over to it writhed on the bed. When Mycroft finally came up for air, he sat back on his haunches, looking down at his brother.

"And fuckable. So completely and utterly fuckable." He grabbed Sherlock's cock, still slick, and lowered himself onto it. Sherlock's brain reeled at the paradox. His cock was buried in Mycroft's exquisitely tight arse. Yes, it definitely was. By most definitions, Sherlock was the one doing the taking, but he wasn't. Mycroft was _owning_ him, completely and utterly. He couldn't move – couldn't do anything to change the speed or angle of Mycroft's downstroke. Mycroft smiled at him, a blissful look on his face. _Fuck, Sherlock, do you know how good this feels?_

 _Reducing you, nggghhh, to swearing now, Mycroft?_

Funny how the moan came through, even in thoughts. He fumbled for the television remote beside Sherlock. _I want you to watch yourself getting fucked by John and Greg while I take you._

They both turned to look at the screen. Sherlock was getting out of the chair and positioning himself on his hands and knees. Greg looked out the window for a couple seconds before he pushed his cock into Sherlock's eager mouth. Mycroft smiled at the gesture. It was nice of them to include him in this. He wondered if the video had been Gregory's idea. Mycroft looked back down at the exquisite creature stretched out beneath him. "You look awfully pleased to have Gregory's cock in your mouth. Like having your mouth filled, do you?" Mycroft started to move faster on Sherlock's rigid cock.

 _Yes, My._

John's fingers were in his arse, spreading him open. The memory filled his brain, blurring the line between memory and reality. He could almost feel Greg thrusting into his mouth, and John working his arse. Mycroft was moving in long fast strokes on his cock. John replaced his fingers with his thick cock. Sherlock shuddered at the sensation.

Mycroft had suspected as much, but this confirmed it. Sherlock's mind was fusing the two events. The two of them were essentially having a foursome. A fivesome, if you included Sherlock's ridiculously huge brain. He smiled to himself, and fucked himself harder on Sherlock's cock. He hadn't expected this. He'd thought he'd be the one to come undone, but Sherlock was clearly the one experiencing the massive mind-fuck. He heard Sherlock (the one on the bed) groan as Greg came down his throat, his tongue licking Greg's come off those perfect lips, lost in the sense memory. Mycroft idly wondered if Sherlock's orgasm was going to be caused by him or by the memory of John fucking his arse. It didn't matter, obviously, but it would be nice to synchronize the two events. He watched John pound into Sherlock, drinking in the wanton expression on Sherlock's face. He glanced back at Sherlock on the bed. Same expression. He didn't think John would last much longer, and grabbed his own cock, bringing himself off as he rode Sherlock harder. As John shuddered his release into Sherlock, Mycroft felt his brother's body go rigid beneath him. Sherlock gasped for breath as his orgasm was ripped from him. The sight of Sherlock, laid bare in all senses of the phrase, sent him over the edge. He moaned as he came all over his brother's chest.

Mycroft climbed off him and moved up the bed. He stroked Sherlock's dark curls. _Sherlock?_

…

 _Sherlock, you there, love?_

… _My?_

 _Yes. I'm here. You're with me, at my flat._

Mycroft released the snap hooks holding the cuffs to the ropes, and gathered Sherlock up in his arms, cradling him. _Are you with me, or are you still there?_ Sherlock's pupils were still blown and unfocused. _You can stay there, it's okay. Just come back when you're ready, love._

 _Mmm._

Mycroft held him as his brain was slowly reeled back, like a kite-string, from 221B.

"My…"

Mycroft smiled down at him. "You're back…"

"Sorry… That was… unlike anything I've ever experienced. I think I got a bit lost in it."

"Mmm." Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock's hair and breathed in the scent of him, glad he was back.

"I was here, but then I was also at home. Like it was superimposed. I could feel all three of you."

Mycroft was suddenly extremely grateful his sibling had never taken LSD. "How was it?"

"Wonderful, but surprisingly difficult to wrap my brain around."

"Perhaps some things are just better left unprocessed."

"Mm. I'm sorry I got lost in it, My. I didn't mean to leave."

Mycroft kissed his head, tenderly. "You're fine, love."


	30. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. Not the end, but the end of an initial exploration.

Sherlock opened the door to 221B.

John put down his book and looked at him. "Hello, love. How'd it go with Mycroft?"

Sherlock paused before answering and looked thoughtful.

_Uh-oh._

"No John, it's not like that. It went well. It just… wasn't what I was expecting."

John furrowed his brow and looked at his lover. "How so?"

"Well, I told him about the rules…"

John broke in. "If you don't mind me asking, what _were_ the rules? I was never really clear on that…"

"I didn't have any, John. It was a bluff. I just wanted to be in control."

"Oh." John was painfully aware that control was probably the one thing Sherlock had lost in these proceedings.

"John, did you know how much Mycroft is into domination?"

"I suspected so, yes. Why?" Their interaction at the hotel had left him little doubt about that.

"He has an entire… playroom. He's been doing it for years. He told me something that, in hindsight, I should have realised, John. You've been telling me for weeks, but apparently I needed to hear it from him to really process it. Submission, ceding control - it quiets my mind, John. Even that first day at Greg's when my brain left for a while - I should have realised it then. I need it John; I need it to balance out the noise. The other night, and this afternoon, it's almost like I'm elsewhere."

John nodded, worried where this was going. _Blood is thicker than water. Might as well just ask._ "Does this change anything, Sherlock? Between us, I mean?"

Sherlock seemed to take in his pained expression then. "Oh, John - no. Of course it doesn't. I was hoping _we_ could do more of it. My brother…" He trailed off, not sure what to say. "Greg is good for him, John."

"I know. And you're good for me, Sherlock."

"There's one thing, John."

"Yes?"

"I don't think these can be classified as experiments anymore. I've found what makes me happy. You do. Submission does. The four of us together does. And so help me, I'll never live this down, but even Mycroft does."

"So you don't want to stop doing things with them?"

Sherlock smiled, warmly, even though his words were chiding. "Were you not listening, John? No, I don't want to stop. But now that I'm not trying to figure out what makes me work, I'll probably be able to relax about it quite a bit more."

John smiled and got up from his chair. He kissed Sherlock lightly on the way to the kitchen and got two glasses. He dug in the cupboard for the bottle of single malt Scotch Mycroft had given them. Pouring two small glasses, he handed one to Sherlock. "To successful experiments."

The glasses clinked softly as they touched.

"To successful experiments."

They both sipped the Scotch and curled up together on the settee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Experiments, but it's not, really. I still have many story ideas to explore. I did realise, however, that Sherlock's (at least initial) phase of self-discovery was complete. So, in many senses, the driving force of the story is done.
> 
> That being said, I plan on continuing the series with additional stories with the established relationships. These will not necessarily be linear in time and will focus mostly on group dynamics, specific kinks, non-standard pairings, and whatever else happens to turn me on at the time. The 'group sex with two corsets' story shows up in [Experiments 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/441009), [Chapter 2 - "Two Corsets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/441009/chapters/752221).
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has supported me in this. It turned out to be a much lengthier endeavour than I expected, and I've discovered a passion for writing in the process. Thank you to _everyone_ who has reviewed and commented – it's why I keep doing this. I never dreamed I'd get this much wonderful feedback.
> 
> I'd like to especially thank **AtlinMerrick,** **IBegToDreamAndDiffer, random_nexus, TsukinoBlossom, Mirith Griffin, Deklava** and **ImAJammyDodger** for their support of both this story and my mental health while I wrote it. And finally, I'd really like to thank **AtlinMerrick** for being The Great Instigator of this little project, even though she claims she wasn't.


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